News from Impulse!

Natural sculpture etched by sand and wind
Islas Cies

Okay okay! The blog is back (we were busy having a bit of a holiday after all that storm – bucket – bucket – storm stuff). The storm – bucket incident makes far more exciting reading than the events of the last week or so (what day is it?) but the last week has been by far more pleasant.

New moon at Corrudedo

So, following the Ría de Muros, we drifted down the coast and nestled in between the many fishing boat moored in the harbour at Corrubedo. We marvelled, before bedtime, at the pretty place, ‘so sweet’ we said, so real. The very real fishermen then kept us awake most of the night zipping in and out of the bay, laying pots, picking then up, engines growling like they too needed to rest.

Casper seeks shade under a horreo

On to the equally pretty Combarro (less ‘real’ and more touristy than the last – oh how well we slept!). Old Combarro sits at the very end of the Ría de Pontevedra, its water frontage crammed with horreos. These Galician maize stores are made of stone, set on legs to protect the produce from rodents and water and adorned with simple crosses and scallop shells.

The winding streets of Combarro

As the sun rose and the land breeze set in, we drifted out of the Ría de Pontevedra under spinnaker, weaving through the large muscle rafts. At last we caught some fish but alas it was mackerel (something about coals to Newcastle) and they were so teeny that we felt compelled to throw them back in. By the time we got to the Islas Cies, lying just outside of the Ría de Vigo, the wind was all but gone, the air hot and the water inviting. We anchored with a handful of visiting boats, in the lee of a short but long white sand beach, framed at each end by a bristling forest of pine and eucalyptus. We spent the next few blissful days walking, swimming and soaking up the sun – and doing some easy but important jobs (fitting the external sun shades to the pod, lengthening the sail cover to protect the new, bigger mainsail from UV ware).

Sewing - Islas Cies

The Islas Cies are a nature reserve – for birds the rare book says – but we only saw seagulls, and very brown topless women.

The Islas Cies (spot Impulse in the bottom RH corner)

The mornings were peaceful and windless, a light breeze arriving only after lunch along with the daytrippers from Vigo. By Sunday our small island paradise had become a fascinating but mildly chaotic pantomime, if there ever were such a thing in Spain. Sixty boats, and then I lost count, now jostled in the bay. Many were rafted up together, some three deep. The bay was a hum with music. Dishes of food were ferried in dinghies from speedboat to yacht, and then back, empty. Most of the small boats were heavy with people, and almost exclusively men. There seemed only to be a female on board if: a) there was also a child under 10 or b) she was fit, tanned, topless and draped over a PVC cushion. By Sunday afternoon we were happy to leave and, as the wind looked promising, did so. We showed off disgracefully, sailing off the anchor under headsail and then bearing away immediately to whip up the huge kite. Luckily it all went to plan but, as if to castigate us for our immodesty, within 15 minutes the wind had vanished completely.

View down Islas Cies towards Baiona

And so we motored into our next port, which was only just down the ‘road’: Baiona.

Impulse in Baiona Bay seen through this funky piece

Baiona is the first landfall that Columbus made after discovering the Americas, and you can understand why. It has a superbly protected bay, which sits right at the top of the Portuguese trade winds. Carrying news of the new lands to the West, Columbus would have been blown straight in on the Atlantic trades. On the Southern end of the bay is a knuckle on which a royal palace was built by one of the many Alfonsos (IX?) who ruled a large part of Galicia in the 1200’s. We had a leisurely stroll around its 2 kilometre perimeter, enjoying the spectacular views North West over the Islas Cies from whence we came and West, an uninterrupted deep blue, towards America.

Skippy looks out to sea from Alfonso's joint

After some excitement in the form of a dinghy rescue (not ours, thankfully) and a phone loss (Casper’s – irretrievable - burial at sea), we sailed off Southbound once more. It was a particularly hot day and the wind was temperamental. We made slow progress towards our destination, Viana do Castelo.

Hoisting our home made Portuguese flag

With the sun still a decent way off the hazy horizon we decided to cut our losses and to sneak in behind the tiny island of Insua Nova just off the mouth of the river Minho which forms the Northern border between Spain and Portugal. The island houses nothing more than a small fort which we think was used either to protect the Portuguese from the Spanish in the 1600’s or from the French under Napoleon in the 1800’s. Reading up on Portugal’s history we were struck by the country’s immense wealth in the past and also by its problematic relationship with neighbouring Spain. This Northern band of Portugal is the oldest part, having been founded as a state (Portucale) in the 1100’s by another Alfonso who declared himself King.

Alfono, the man com el plan

We anchored just around the ancient fortress town of Caminha in which, I was tickled to read, there is a picture of a man bearing his bottom to Spain (just across the river Minho) engraved on the Northern façade of one of its ancient buildings. Caminha was Portucale’s first major trading port, and continued to be one of its major ones until its trade was diverted to Viana do Castelo, our next port of call.

Sunset at Insua Nova, river Minho

One can really tell that Viana was a major trading post. Its architecture, ornate and elegant, speaks of riches from afar – not only financial, to fund the projects, but moreover aesthetic, inspiring the design and spirit that was to imbue these buildings. The narrow streets are carefully paved, carving the beautiful town into small quarters, each with its own charm. The streets have a labyrinthine quality but the town is not oppressive thanks to the abundance of airy Plaças and the wide promenade along the dock where we were moored.

Casper takes a rest on the stairway to heaven

Casper and I celebrated my birthday in Viana, picking up cards and gifts sent posta restante to the correios (thankyou!!!), eating puffy custard filled cakes and climbing the stairway to heaven and the Church of Santa Lucia, a popular pilgrimage sight. We had lunch in a very local joint, which although decisively ‘no frills’ was brilliant. No one spoke anything other than Portuguese but we managed because there were only two things on the menu and we were given one of each: sardines and chicken (which much to my amusement is called frango who I am sure was a character in the Muppets).

Feeling my age in Viana do Castelo

It seems that when you are cruising and you finally arrive somewhere where you think ‘how nice, let’s stay put for a bit’ the weather changes or threatens to at least and you are compelled to leave just in case you get stuck in that ‘very nice place’ for so long that you begin to hate it. So it was with Viana – the wind threatened to blow South, South, South FOREVER and so early on October the 2nd, a day into my 33rd year on this mortal sphere we headed out, not South but West because the wind had already started misbehaving. Despite not being able to steer a preferred course, we had a great sail over a day and a half, tacking out to sea and back in again. The wind was wildly variable and so were our sail settings: asymmetric, white sails, screecher, reefs in, reefs out. The engine came on overnight as the fog set in thick. Motoring in fog is eerie as things suddenly appear with no warning - and with the engine on you can’t hear them approach. I jumped out of my skin when three dolphins broke the soupy silver surface besides me and entertained themselves, briefly, in our wake.

Perfectly timed by our skipper, we slipped into the strangely perfect bay of Sao Martinhao do Porto just before losing the light. Sao Martinho (between Porto and Lisbon) is a circular cove with a crescent of fine sand at its lip, entered through a slim shallow passage between two scraggy cliffs. Looking at it on a chart, it has the appearance of an ink stain, where the sea has bled into the land.

Sao Martinhao at dawn

Behind its flashy façade of restaurants and holidays apartments, the old town has a crumbling and sunbleached beauty, which no new building could ever emulate. I cannot say more at this point, because we have yet to explore fully. This week the wind continues to blow South, until Thursday. We therefore have time for some inland excursions: Obidos and Lisbon. So my friends, até logo!

El capitano maravilloso