We should have known the Costa da Morte would push us around a little. The name alone—“Coast of Death”—was a pretty good clue. But after surviving Finisterre’s relentless wind and an unfortunate barnacle-related incident, we figured we were ready for anything.
We were wrong.
It started in Muxía, a tiny coastal town with waves that looked like they were actively trying to devour the land. This is where legend says the Virgin Mary appeared to St. James, arriving in a stone boat, which is now immortalized in the Santuario da Virxe da Barca. The church itself looks like it’s clinging on for dear life against the Atlantic. We parked the van and walked toward it, the wind already picking up.
I had barely stepped onto the rocky path when a sudden gust sent me stumbling sideways. Kevin, of course, was completely fine.
“Déjà vu?” he smirked, hands in his pockets, while I fought to keep my hair out of my mouth.
Pilgrims were gathered around the Pedra de Abalar, an ancient rocking stone believed to have mystical properties. People used to say that if the stone moved for you, it meant you were innocent of sin. Given how our Spanish had been going, I figured we’d need all the divine intervention we could get.
Feeling windswept but accomplished, we found a little seafood restaurant overlooking the harbor. The menu was in Galician. The waiter spoke rapid Spanish. Kevin, as always, was confident.
“We’ll have pulpo a la gallega,” I said, feeling proud of myself for remembering the word for octopus. The waiter nodded enthusiastically, said something that sounded vaguely approving, and disappeared.
What arrived was…not octopus.
We stared down at a plate of something that looked suspiciously like tripe. Kevin, ever the optimist, took a bite.
“It’s…chewy.”
I sighed and reached for the bread.
Determined to shake off the lunch debacle, we headed north to Camariñas, home to the Cabo Vilán Lighthouse and some of Spain’s most treacherous waters. The lighthouse itself is perched on a cliff, its enormous foghorn ready to scare the soul out of anyone standing too close.
We wandered through the town and into a lace-making shop, where women sat patiently working on delicate patterns. Inspired, I attempted to ask for something small, a simple souvenir. My Spanish skills, however, had other plans.
The shopkeeper beamed and proceeded to pull out a full lace tablecloth. I smiled and nodded in a panic, then spent the next five minutes figuring out how to politely decline it without accidentally agreeing to buy five more.
Our last stop was Laxe, where we parked by Praia dos Cristais, a beach covered in colorful sea glass. As the sun began to dip, I decided I would redeem myself by successfully ordering a coffee.
Somehow, I ordered four desserts instead.
Kevin, delighted, dug in. “This might be your best mistake yet.”
I groaned, staring down at the pastries. “We really need to take those Spanish lessons.”
It was something we’d been thinking about. We’re looking at splurging on proper Spanish courses later in the summer when we get to Barcelona – like this one. We’d been scraping by with basic phrases and wild hand gestures, but at some point, sheer luck wasn’t going to cut it anymore. Besides, how much easier would life be if we actually understood what we were ordering?
As the waves crashed against the shore, Kevin reached for another dessert. “Or,” he said, mouth full, “we could just keep letting fate decide what we eat.”
I sighed. He had a point. But still. Spanish lessons. Soon.
The Costa da Morte had given us stunning views, wild landscapes, and a reminder that we were, at best, hilariously underprepared for Spanish life. We watched the sky turn pink over the Atlantic, full of pastry and slightly bruised egos.
Maybe we hadn’t conquered the Costa da Morte, but at least we’d survived it. And that was enough for now.
