A Coruña
From Gijon, we drove towards A Coruña, stopping at a place called Vilalba for lunch. A small village on the pilgrimage route, Vilalba was full of people in walking gear. We were ushered into a restaurant by a well-meaning local who felt that we needed to be shown where to eat. In his defence, the food was very good. We ordered a huge egg and tuna salad to share, as well as a big plate of creamy patatas bravas. Sufficiently fed and watered, we continued on our own pilgrimage towards the coast.
Our campsite in A Coruña was basic, if I’m being generous. When we arrived, the waitress had to tell the owner we were there; they had all been sitting in the bar together enjoying the afternoon sun. The showers were cold, the tiles in the toilet block were cracked, there were cobwebs everywhere, and half the light fittings didn’t work. We were one of only 3 parties staying on the site, which easily had room for 20 more tents. But we ignored the warning signs and stayed for two nights, giving us a whole day in which to explore the city.
Luckily, A Coruña more than made up for our substandard lodgings. The city is beautiful and busy, with a slightly wild feel to it. The centre of the old city borders the sea in several bays, and there are numerous beaches that line the shore. But this is no polite seaside resort. The harbour is crammed with boats, and the sea is blustery and unforgiving. The bars and cafes are full of locals, the food is incredibly cheap, and there were no touristy tat shops that we saw at all. More than anywhere else we’ve been, A Coruña feels like somewhere that people actually live — where they work, and raise their family, and walk their dog, and weed their gardens. It’s unpretentious and lively. Something I read about the place said that the people of A Coruña “know how to live the good life”, and that quote made perfect sense to me as we wandered through the city.
When we arrived, the tiny cobbled streets of the old city had been taken over by a huge medieval fair. There were stalls selling everything from homemade soap to cheese to jewellery, and there were people everywhere — families with small children, groups of friends, older people with tiny dogs. We pressed through, peering at the stalls and weaving through the never-ending sea of people. A small musical band came through in medieval costume and played some traditional folk-music. We found some food at a quieter square, and watched as the throngs of people pushed past.
We cut through some back streets, where there were no stalls or people, and stumbled upon a plaque that read “La creperia de sinagogua”. When we reached the end of the road, we saw that it was called “Calle de la Sinagoga”. This was my first hint of the Jewish legacy that exists Spain and Portugal, and made me feel a little more connected to these winding narrow streets, so far from the north of England I call home.
Once we had seen all that we wanted to of the market, we sat for a while in the main square, Plaza de Maria Pita. The square is named for Maria Pita, who helped defend the city against the English during an attack from Francis Drake in 1589. It’s a huge space, dominated by the intricately detailed town hall, though when we were there it was full of small children enjoying a medieval-themed funfair.
The following day, we walked up to the Tower of Hercules, the world’s oldest functioning lighthouse. We had underestimated how popular the tower would be, and by the time we arrived to buy our tickets just after lunch, the only time slot left was at 7:30pm that evening. We originally accepted the tickets, but after a short deliberation we gave them back. For one, our bus route home stopped at around 8pm. For another, the tower closed in high winds — and it was very windy — so we decided not to wait around just to find that ultimately we couldn’t go up.
Instead, we walked all around the outside of it. The tower sits on a small peninsula, surrounded on three sides by the blustery sea. On the grass below, right next to the water, there’s a compass rose that supposedly marks the spot where the Celts divided themselves to go to eight different regions: Scotland, Ireland, Isle of Man, Wales, Turkey, Spain, Cornwall and Brittany. It was a good spot for a dramatic photo, though neither of our cameras could quite capture the ferocity of the winds or the brutality of the sea.
We spent our last evening in A Coruña drinking wine in a bar near the main square. I’d happily return for any amount of time — a proper old fashioned hidden gem.
