We weren’t even sure we wanted to go. Finisterre, the so-called “end of the world,” felt like one of those places you visit because you’re supposed to, not because you actually care. A tick-the-box kind of stop. But when you’re already drifting along the coast, when the Atlantic keeps pulling you west, you eventually run out of excuses.
And then, of course, it knocked us sideways.
Finisterre isn’t just a place. It’s a feeling. The kind that creeps up on you when you stand on a cliff edge with the wind trying to push you back, when you look out at the nothingness of the ocean and realize that, for centuries, people thought this was it. The last stop. Beyond this—just mystery and monsters.
We parked the van near the lighthouse, which looked exactly how a lighthouse at the edge of the world should look—weather-beaten, slightly miserable, and vaguely judging you. The wind here wasn’t just wind; it was a personal attack. It grabbed my hair, ripped through my jacket, shoved me forward like some unseen force was trying to hurry me off the cliff.
Kevin, of course, was completely unaffected.
“Feels nice,” he said, hands in his pockets, like he was out for a casual Sunday stroll.
Meanwhile, I was actively being blown sideways.
We wandered past a group of Camino pilgrims, who had that dazed, spiritually exhausted but slightly smug look of people who had just walked across an entire country. A few were gathered near a pile of burning boots.
Yes. Burning boots.
Apparently, it’s tradition for some Camino walkers to finish their journey here by setting their shoes on fire—a symbolic farewell to the road, or maybe just a way of punishing their footwear for the suffering they’ve endured. Either way, it was dramatic as hell.
One guy took off his boots, held them above the flames, and hesitated for a long, long moment.
I leaned toward Kevin. “He’s having second thoughts.”
“I would too. Those boots probably cost 200 euros.”
The guy looked at his boots. Looked at the fire. Then, very slowly, he stuffed them into his backpack instead.
Smart man.
After that, we decided we needed food. And in true Kevin fashion, he went full local.
Finisterre is famous for seafood, and there was one particular dish he’d been dying to try.
Percebes. Gooseneck barnacles.
Now, if you’ve never seen these things, just picture alien claws clinging to a rock. They look less like food and more like something that might grab your ankle and drag you into the sea. But apparently, they’re a delicacy. And they cost a fortune because harvesting them is basically a death sport. Fishermen risk their lives scaling dangerous cliffs, battling wild waves just to pry these weird little creatures off the rocks.
So naturally, Kevin had to have them.
We sat at a tiny seaside restaurant with a plate of €40 barnacles between us. They smelled like pure ocean. Salty, briny, vaguely intimidating.
“How do you even eat these?” I asked.
“You squeeze them.”
I squeezed.
Nothing happened.
Kevin, feeling superior, grabbed one and twisted it. The shell-like skin popped open, revealing the soft, edible part inside. He slurped it down like he was some kind of barnacle-eating expert.
I tried again. This time, the thing exploded.
Barnacle juice everywhere. All over my hands, my jacket, my face. Possibly in my hair.
Kevin was dying.
“That was amazing,” he choked between fits of laughter.
I wiped my face with a napkin and glared at him. “You’re eating the rest.”
And he did. With far too much enjoyment.
We walked back to the van just as the sun started dipping into the ocean. There’s something about Finisterre at sunset—the way the light falls, the way the waves crash just a little harder, the way the sky looks like it’s swallowing the world whole. It makes you feel small in the best possible way.
I stood there, arms wrapped around myself, and thought about all the people who had stood in this exact spot before us. Explorers, sailors, wanderers, people who believed they had reached the very end of existence.
Kevin nudged me.
“You thinking deep thoughts?”
I nodded. “For a second. And now I’m mostly thinking about how much barnacle juice is still on me.”
He grinned. “Worth it though, right?”
I sighed. Looked back at the Atlantic, the vast stretch of nothingness beyond.
Yeah.
Worth it.
