I REALLY hope this place is better than first impressions suggest, otherwise I am marooned here for a couple of days. Everyone says it is a delight, but I have yet to see ANY evidence confirming those assertions.
Let’s start by being positive.
The hike from Finisterre to Muxia is an adventure, and arguably the best leg of the trip. With a couple of extensions and alternative routes, it was nearer 35km. It is less-well sign-posted, there are far-fewer humans, the countryside alternates between woodland and unspoiled beach, and the weather was just divine at 30-32c with clear blue skies, but blowing a consistent breeze to make the journey easy and bearable, even at the height of the day. I left at 0800 and arrived at 1535, after multiple stops. Today was a dawdle. Deliberately.
This, however, was a weird one. I was (genuinely) listening to Texas (Southside, 1989, Prayer for You), when I happened upon this trash-can:
Who, in the middle of back-of-beyond Galicia, puts a sticker like this on a municipal garbage can? Anyway, it seemed apropos, hence the picture.
My hotel in Muxia is super (Habitat Cm Muxia, Calle Real, 40). Here’s the view of the harbour from the bathroom:
Great A/C: two terraces with double doors. Lots of storage space that I don’t need. Two single beds, lots of plug-points, a well-thought-out layout and super-clean and very friendly; actually couldn’t do enough to make you feel at home. I’ll comment on breakfast tomorrow (from 0800).
Dinner was a different matter, and here I slip into DisparagingDes.
The first four eateries I tried would serve booze, but no food until 2000-2030. It was 1830. This is a tourist town. Accommodate tourists, don’t adhere to local habit. Tourists, I no longer use the term Pilgrim, given the location and demography, want to eat throughout the day because… they arrive throughout the day. Bad sign for an enduring business model. On my fifth try, I hit pay-dirt. A snotty Spaniard with a nose-piercing, big expander-earrings, a semi-Mohawk and an Irish tee-shirt announced “ower keetchen ees olwez opeen”.
You got me, hook line and stinker (no pun).
I ordered chipirones for a starter and entrecôte as a main.
Now, we in the civilised world know that the starter precedes the main course, right? Apparently not in this restaurant.
The server appeared with both dishes in hand and plonked them down on the table with an air of triumph. I tried to argue some sequencing to the timing, but it was lost on him.
“Zee keetchen is so kweek” he said proudly…
“I don’t give a fuck. One dish gets cold as I eat the other, and I DON’T want to wolf these down. Do you understand the difference between starter and main course, you beardy, hippy-dippy, shit-heel?”… say I grimacing, barely able to conceal my derision and wondering how I can tear out that goofy ear-ring or severe his windpipe without others noticing.
Back to reality…
“Zee keetchen is so kweek” he purred meekly as he tried to raise a smile (or snigger, not sure…).
If I asked him to take it back, they’d just warm it, it would be rubbery AND they would have spat or spunked on it, so I cut my losses. Impromptu ‘surf and turf’. And this is why I remain dubious that Spain has a valid place in the First World. I’ve had better service in Argentina and Chile, and at lower cost. Consider that. Scary.
I’m off to try and find my hotel. There are a lot of backstreets in this podunk town and apparently it’s easy to get lost. Restaurants won’t open for another hour or so, so I assume I’ll not get decent sleep because this is a small town, they eat late… and entertainment thereafter… boozing and fornication with close relatives is a past-time – as I have noted several times before.
This may be a very long two days… and I’ll let you know.
Manaña.