I don’t know why we nearly skipped Carnota. It was just a name on the map, a maybe-stop if we had time, if the weather was good, if the van didn’t make any weird noises that day. But somehow, we ended up here. And then, we didn’t leave.
Carnota Beach is huge. Not just “oh, this is a long beach” huge, but so massive it felt like we’d accidentally driven onto the wrong continent. Sand stretching for what looked like miles, barely a soul in sight. Just us, the van, the wind, and the waves chewing at the shore like they had all the time in the world.
First thing we did? Food. Obviously.
Kevin was dead set on something “properly local” but “not weird.” This ruled out pulpo (which I personally think should stay in the ocean where it belongs) and paella (wrong region, Kevin, come on). So we ended up with caldo gallego.
Which, for the record, is soup.
“Soup?” I stared at the steaming bowl in front of me like it had personally wronged me. “Kevin. We are at the beach. And you ordered soup.”
“It’s not just soup,” he said, already halfway through his first spoonful.
And, fine. It wasn’t just soup.
It was the kind of thing that felt like a hug in a bowl. Thick with potatoes that actually tasted like something, big creamy white beans, hunks of chorizo that had been swimming in its own salt and paprika dreams, and these dark leafy greens—grelos, I think?—that looked like the chef had nicked them from the nearest roadside but somehow worked.
We inhaled three bowls each.
After that, we went to sort the van.
Finding a spot was a battle. There weren’t any official campsites, just a couple of scattered parking areas, and one of them had already been claimed by an elderly French couple with a vintage camper that probably should have been in a museum. The man sat outside in a plastic chair, watching us like a security guard who hadn’t been paid in years but still took the job very seriously.
I went full diplomatic Mary mode.
“Le camper, euh… park… ici?” I gestured vaguely to an empty patch of land.
He narrowed his eyes. Kevin tried to look friendly but not threatening, which meant standing slightly too far away and nodding a lot.
The man sighed. Waved a hand. Permission granted.
And that was it. We were in.
The next few days? Perfect.
Mornings started with coffee, sitting in our camping chairs, watching the sky stretch over the sea. Days drifted by in slow walks along the dunes, soaking up the quiet. Afternoons turned into lazy naps with the sound of waves in the background. Sunset? Unbelievable. One of those golden, stretched-out affairs that makes you forget to check your phone.
And then, of course, came the dog.
Because there is always a dog.
This one was big, damp, and absolutely convinced he lived with us. He belonged to no one and everyone. Some kind of sand-covered beach philosopher. He trotted up to Kevin during dinner, flopped down dramatically, and started watching him eat with deep, soulful eyes.
Kevin, to his credit, held out for a solid thirty seconds before cracking.
“Just a little bit,” he said.
The dog inhaled half of Kevin’s bread in one gulp. Looked at him like, “Finally, some respect.”
And then he never left.
That night, he slept right outside the van like he was our personal bodyguard. Which, in theory, was adorable.
In practice?
He barked. At everything.
The waves? Bark.
The wind? Bark.
A plastic bag moving slightly? Bark bark bark.
At some point, half-asleep, I muttered, “Congratulations, Kevin. You’ve adopted a lighthouse.”
By morning, he was gone. Probably off to find his next set of humans.
We sat in our chairs, sipping coffee, watching the light stretch over the beach.
“This is the best place we’ve been,” Kevin said.
And I didn’t argue.
Because it was.
For now.
