Isla de Arosa - Ria de Pontevedra - Ria de Vigo

 

Here we are in a Marina underneath a wooded hill beside the city of Vigo which sweeps around a curve to the west and is described in the guide book as being Spain’s largest fishing port.  It also has a lot of container traffic.  This Ria is said to be ‘broad and sheltered’ and while there are certainly sheltered inlets our experience of the Rias has been of sunshine and strong winds.

We are being looked after well as the manager of the place instantly recognised a boat of quality and coincidentally one of a type that he is considering buying.  He has been on board and later he brought his wife.  Encouraged by my success at describing my galley as ‘muy bien’ in a ‘mar gruesa’ - I love the word gruesa, it so well conveys the way I feel in a rough sea - I went on to show her our  cabin but was greeted by blank looks as I said that it was ‘comida’.  Later it dawned on me that I had described our cabin as being ‘very lunch’ comida being lunch but comodo meaning comfortable - you can see how I messed up.

To back track a little now - after Vilagarcia………………………………...............   .  The anchorage at Isla de Arosa, through mussel beds and off a popular sandy beach - water temperature still about 17c so not much swimming - was very busy but thinned out every evening leaving only the foreigners.  The excitement here, and every day there is one, was being busted by the customs.  We had spent the day ashore at yet another festival, not surprisingly celebrating the sea.  We smelt the perfumed wood smoke and roasting fish and heard the singing before we came across the waterfront covered with white tents, people sitting at trestle tables.  We took sometime to work out that we had to buy a ticket for the item we wanted before  handing it to the next person who doled out the food.  Fish, fish, or  fish?  We sneakily and guiltily crave a hamburger- however having looked at what other people were eating we settled for mussels and paella with bread and a bottle of the local wine to wash it all down with.  Wandering in and out of the crowds, looking for a place to sit, we were spied by a couple we had met earlier in the week so joined them and their family.  We returned to the boat and as dusk fell became conscious of a throbbing engine and voices calling very close.  Slightly alarmed we looked out to find a dark sinister shaped blue boat with ADUANA written on the side.  The cheery faces of the men indicating they wanted to come on board put paid to my wild imaginings of pirates.  They had as little English as we had Spanish and spent about half an hour on the boat.  They didn’t search us or the boat, just wanted their paperwork filled in -  we were simply a statistic.  Sadly neither of us having a good command of the others language meant we couldn’t really have any conversation.  I do so wish I knew more Spanish.  A French spy who had also been in the anchorage and had obviously watched all this with interest rowed across the next morning to enquire what had gone on and to inform us that they had then gone to a Spanish motor boat and spent two hours drinking there!  He seemed quite shocked!

As we left this lovely Ria there was a sailing race coming towards us.  I am not exaggerating, there must have been over 100 boats.  The wind was strong and they were close hauled and steaming along, their sails slashing the blue sky.  After the first of the big boats, crews in matching shirts and shorts, had waved and hailed us we realised that it may not have been a friendly greeting but an indication that we should shorten the trail on our dinghy, so it may be more accurate to say they were gesticulating and swearing!   It was difficult, we found ourselves cutting across and although in sailing terms we were, ‘the stand on boat’  when there is a race you try not to get in the way.  It was rather like a motor cycle act when the bikes cross each other at break neck speed and accuracy.  

In the Ria de Pontevedra at Sanxenxo after a good but silent haircut with a smiling lady, Andy played the joker following a long and indulgent lunch in the yacht club which we happened upon on ‘Maria’s Day’.  As the waiter said, with 99% of the girls in Spain called Maria (the remaining 1% must be Carmens) it was very busy but he found a table for us was charming, attentive and extremely observant as after the very good meal with wine and complementary liqueurs a bottle shaped plastic bag was put on the table containing the liqueur that I had particularly enjoyed.  

We sailed up to the head of the Ria and anchored off Combarro. In its day it was a sleepy little fishing village, each house having its plot of land to grow vegetables and its little ‘horreo’ or grain store.  These are rectangular stone structures raised from the ground on stilts.  On either end, at the apex of the roof there is usually a cross.  They are in abundance here and some quite old.  The original village with its stone streets and narrow twisting lanes is restored but the result is that it feels like a film set and has become extremely touristy if not slightly twee.  It was crowded and for the first time I was conscious of litter.  The places have been clean and Spain seems keen on its recycling.  Most have facilities although on closer inspection people are not all that careful of which bin they throw things. This village is expanding and a marina being built.  We anchored on the first night amidst a mad rush of activity.  A multitude of disparate craft manned by similar crew energetically steered around us, the nearest mussel bed and back.  Then traditionally rigged boats came out, again of different types and rigs though all picturesque and intriguing in their set up. This all seemed to be the precursor to the weekend and yet another Festival.  A festival to celebrate the folklore of Galicia and damn, we read in the paper today (yes the spanish is improving) that we have missed the Festival of the Onion!  As the evening settled down and we thought of going ashore we heard the sound of the Galician pipes and a beautiful little boat with dark red sails came out of the harbour and on the stern the silhouette of a man playing.  We went ashore to sample some folklore and sat in a bar overlooking the action.  There were some quite funny things going on as the stage was being readied and from what we could make out a breakaway group tried to hi jack the stage for their own use before the official programme began.  There was a lot of hand waving and to-ing and fro-ing and eventually with a few shakes of a tambourine and a squeeze of an accordion they were gone only to appear later at a table near us, an animated group of young people.  Again I wish our Spanish was better and we could have learned the story. It is unfailingly entertaining being a voyeur.

A grand knowledge of the Spanish language we may not have but if there is one phrase we have come to know and love it is ‘mas o menos’.  This useful little phrase describes many things, whether it is the amount of ‘jammon’ you want or in this case the bus to Pontevedra which, we were told in the information office would arrive somewhere along a particular street ‘mas o menos’ 40 minutes after the scheduled time of leaving O Grove - a town further down the Ria. We got to the street and saw an elderly couple who had the look of a pair waiting for a bus so we joined them and waited, and waited and waited and eventually another couple turned up and then a family of three and so on.  We paced and shifted, we looked at watches, we folded and unfolded arms, we craned our necks but no bus came.  Two came through going the other way and we were heartened thinking that at least these two might get to their destination and return for us.  Ha! Here’s a bus.  Hopes rise, everyone is alert and the bus sweeps past with a shake of the hand from the driver indicating that the bus is ‘completo’ Agh!  The original couple it turned out had been waiting for TWO HOURS.  They were so accepting and patient, it happens quite a lot apparently.  Combarro, it seems has no resident taxis either but the Gods were with us and as the second taxi in the very heavy traffic went by and I waved it stopped and we dived in accompanied by the elderly couple and all went happily and with relief to Pontevedra.  Why were we going there again?  Oh yes, it was to wander the old medieval town.  It did have charm and it was worth it - we had just missed the biggest festival in their season, the festival of the Virgin of Pilgrims, we had seen fireworks  from over the hill the night before.

Just off the next Ria, Ria de Vigo lie the Islas Cies, we had to obtain permission to anchor off, as it is a protected natural park.  So with copies of the paper work - the actual permission comes by email and may arrive by Christmas - we went to look at possible anchorages.  The wind was blowing onshore quite strongly and we didn’t like it so we went across to the mainland and a quirky little bay which had the most intriguing house on the hill above the rocky shoreline.  It merged into the hill and had the appearance of having grown organically from the land.  Entirely inorganic was a large green crane from which was hanging or rather swinging precariously a small white rowing boat with a bright orange bottom.  We watched Heath Robinson the owner SITTING IN THE BOAT whilst suspended and using a remote control device to lower him into the sea.  

We went back to the Islas Cies the next day and walked there noting that no animals were allowed on the island only ‘seeing eye dogs’.  The next few nights were spent at anchor, one with little fishing boats roaring around us at dead of night some showing no lights.

Now we are in Vigo and have stocked up in anticipation of Mac and Sophia’s visit at the local Spar, here called Molde and run by a chap keen to practice his English whose brother is married to a Scottish girl and lives in Fort William.  Connections, connections always connections.

Jint