Reefs and Rias.

The French call their coasts by names designed to appeal to the tourist: the Côte d’Opal and the Côte d’Azure for example. No such euphemisms for the Galicians of north-west Spain though, they named theirs Costa del Morte, the ‘Coast of Death’. This is an unforgiving iron coast, strewn with deadly unmarked reefs with names such as “The Witches", “Grief”, “The Wolf”, “The Englishman’s Grave”. At its western extremity is Finisterre, literally “the end of land”, that well-known villain of the shipping forecasts, whose distant gales and fogs rudely interrupt radio test-match commentary.

It is also the land of the rias, deep fjord-like flooded river-valleys, similar to Falmouth Harbour or Plymouth Sound but on a bigger scale. Mountainous and scenic, with deserted beaches and an abundance of well-sheltered harbours, it is one of the world’s great cruising grounds.

Harbours and Islands.

This is our fourth visit together by yacht, during which time we have visited 10 of the 12 ‘Alta Rias’ on the north coast of Galicia, and all five of the large ‘Baja Rias’ on the west coast. (The two we have missed are small and shallow, not really like true rias). We have stayed at a great many of their harbours, but as there are up to half-a-dozen in each ria, we still have a number to go. During the time we have been coming the area has greatly changed. There is new development everywhere – including marinas of which there are now twenty-five, enough for a cruise to be entirely marina based. But there are still many small fishing harbours where a yacht can anchor just outside the numerous small fishing boat moorings, and there is no charge and no interference.

There are also many attractive anchorages in bays off beaches, generally with partial shelter so an eye needs to be kept on the weather. The best of these are off the handful of gorgeous offshore islands that are maintained as National Parks: Cies, Ons, Sálvora, Sisargas. Sentinel has visited all of these. Cies and Ons are mountainous, very popular for ferry trips and become rather over-run by day visitors in the height of summer. On our visit to Ons, we somewhat accidentally anchored off a crowded nudist beach that made for an interesting visit. Sálvora is private, and Sisargas remote and difficult to approach unless the weather is kind.

The cities must also be mentioned. A Coruña and Vigo both have marinas in their centres, chandleries and all the services yachts might require. A Coruña, with its celebrated Roman lighthouse, the Torre Hercules, has an historic feel around the harbour. Sir John Moore is buried in a tomb in the ramparts, after having successfully held the rearguard of a Dunkirk-like retreat from Spain during the Napoleonic wars. In A Coruña we met Tony and Leonie, with whom we had sailed in CSSA Solent rallies ten years ago. Boozy reminiscences went on well into the night. They were taking a test cruise in their Sadler 34 Lady Ayesha to see whether they would enjoy long-term voyaging.

Isla Sálvora.

Vigo is a younger, vigorous and wealthy city, with a major cruise terminal which ensures a daily supply of slightly bewildered English tourists wandering around. We were fascinated by the maze of cobbled streets in the old city area, which tumble down steep slopes to the ancient collonaded facade of the fishing port, no longer at the water's edge but which incongruously faces an underground car-park. Dock developments have pushed the sea out of sight half a mile away. We loved the sense of fun with art in both these cities. A third must-see city in Galicia, though not on the coast, is Santiago de Compostella, with an astounding cathedral where St James is reputedly buried.

The End of Land.

Cape Finisterre itself unexpectedly faces southward. (The north-west tip is actually Cape Villano). A fresh north-easterly breeze bowled us briskly along the north coast of Galicia, and after a brief overnight stop in the tiny fishing village of Corme, around the corner to the Cape itself. Then, just as we reached within a mile of the Cape, abruptly the fan turned off. We were left wallowing in large Atlantic swells until the faintest of southerly sea breezes started to fill the sails.

Cape Finisterre


Pavement art, Vigo style.

As we drifted along we ran out the mackerel line, without success. It was quite a shock when we looked behind, to see that the top of Cape Finisterre had vanished. A sudden, thick fog was descending. Like Ushant, Finisterre is notorious for these. In poor visibility, the many reefs in this area present a real threat, and our options were much reduced. We decided that safest would be to head for the tiny fishing harbour of Finisterre which we could just make out a couple of miles away – just a mole not offering much shelter, but “any port in a storm”. Then a pea-souper descended, so we could barely see the front of the boat from the back. After a seemingly interminable period we could just make out the shape of the mole, which was no more than a faint grey shadow a couple of boat lengths away. We slowly inched around the end of the wall. A solitary moored fishing boat loomed out of the fog – we slipped behind it and dropped anchor. Once the anchor was down and the engine off, we were alone, in a silent world of our own.

We scarcely had five minutes to enjoy the peace before a small French yacht, about 30’ or so, appeared out of the gloom. Their relief at spotting us must have been considerable since the three very young couples aboard seemed to be clinging to one another and kissing ardently. Scant attention was paid to slinging down the anchor, as a result of which their boat swung back not 5 meters from us, no attention being paid to our protests. They all seemed very determined to get ashore as quickly as possible. Next thing we knew they had all clambered into a diminutive inflatable dinghy, giggling and chattering as they disappeared into the fog.

I thought this would be a good opportunity to sort the anchors while they were gone. As we pulled in our chain we nudged up to them, and I gave their boat a shove out the way, so we could collect our anchor, and move a few meters further away. To our surprise, a couple more heads stuck out the hatch of the French yacht, evidently in flagrante delecto when we startled them. Later we saw one couple return in the dinghy while those on board went ashore. Love in such cramped conditions required careful organisation.

Next morning the fog had vanished, and with it the overcrowded French love-nest. And surprise!, far from being alone we were on the edge of a harbour packed with small fishing boats. Finisterre proved to be very typical of many of the small fishing harbours we visited in the rias, though its position is exceptional. Facing east across a ria, just around a sheltering headland, the village was built along a street following the line of the cliff, so that houses on the outside clung to the cliff edge allowing the occasional stunning view, it was remarkably reminiscent of Cawsand in Plymouth Sound. The similarity looked all the greater on postcards of the village back in the 1960’s. Since then though the harbour mole has been constructed, with an ugly plaza or esplanade behind, and many of the old houses have been torn down, to be replaced by bland apartment blocks which overshadow those that remain. The ones that survive give ample evidence of how pretty this place could have been. But the English obsession with property restoration is not shared by the Spanish. Two of the villages in this area, Muros and Combarro, do have centres that have been carefully conserved, and as a result are magnets for tourists – mostly Spanish . But since replacement is not permitted, too many of the old houses have been left abandoned, some with caved in roofs, no more than shells, with a forlorn and faded sign “For Sale” painted on the boarded up space where once a front door stood. In Muros there is an estate agent specialising in the sale of these ‘renovation properties’ – to the English.

Cockle picking, Rias Baja

Combarro (with Sentinel anchored off).

At the southern end of the Rias Baja lies Cape Silleiro. This is something of a point of no return, because with the Portuguese Trades blowing steadily southwards, it becomes increasingly difficult to return to England by the direct route. Sentinel rounded the Cape on the 12th September.