… until now meant - for me! - transit area , crossing territory, inevitable country.

Traveling from Germany, or any other country in Europe, to Portugal, and driving
back, making that route by car, you can’t divert.

Obviously there should not be any reason for that. The sinister times of Franco &
Co. are more than dead and buried … for us, of course, recalcitrant outsiders, who
at most make an excursion to the monstrous “Valley of the Fallen” (Valle de los
Caídos), the more insolent witness of fascist megalomania, conceived, developed
and created by the truculent dwarf with the high-pitched voice, "paca la culona"
(Franca the big ass).
Beelzebub may have and keep him and his henchmen, of infamous memory.

Santiago de Compostela


Santiago de Compostela – dreamed destination … for a long time.
Traces of medieval romanticism attached to old legends of the “Camino”.

Some dazzling slides, shown by a young lady who had been in Santiago, revived
old dreams, expanding the range of the illusions which brought me mentally to
the capital of Galicia.
And an old voice was blowing in my ears: not far from there you can gaze at the
rolling of the “Waves of Vigo’s sea”. Lessons on Galician-Portuguese philology
had launched in the seminarian fantasy the germ of curiosity about so romantic
and distant “waves”.

Ondas do mar de Vigo… Ondas do mar levado…
Ai ondas que eu vin veer, se me saberedes dizer…

Ai ondas que eu vin mirar, se me saberedes contar…

And travelling through Spain a cousin of Minas had discovered our Cantabrian
roots, coat of arms, crest, towers, castles, etc., I'd have some day the chance
to visit, Altamira, Quijas and surroundings.

A Coruña

coruna 463

A Coruña for me is this: Monte Alto, a charming quarter occupying almost the
entire hill, somewhat flattened on the picture above, covering most of the island
[a peninsula], with the Hercules Tower, 10 min. walking from our home.
From my window and the terrace you catch sight of the sea on all sides as well as
most of the city.

Surrounded by the sea, oceanic, Atlantic, calm sea, turbulent sea, our horizon
fades in the wavy sea-green surface that each new day offers, beyond the rewarding
feeling of a complete visual freedom, the profile of some merchant ship or a luxury liner and the unbeatable, omnipresent, ravenous screaming seagulls, frequent bré-
the Galician term for haze, the offshore arising fog, usually announcing the strong presence of the wind.


Vigo, of course, its beautiful bay, the famous “ondas do mar de Vigo” (the waves
of Vigo’s sea) of the medieval cantigas.

To little Moaña I had already been once, a beautiful summer day.
Our beloved grandparents (from Vigo), Pura and Alonso, invited us to have lunch
in Moaña, I remember our first crossing of Vigo’s bay with the ferry and a splendid “mariscada” (seafood meal) – unforgettable the exhuberant landscape between the hills and the sea, and the delicious Galician food.

Cangas? The luck, the tip of a jazz friend led us to visit this inviting little town at the other side of Vigo’s bay, in the Peninsula of Morrazo, almost entirely surrounded by
the Atlantic Ocean.

It was the last day of February, a sunny day with the first rays and buds of spring.
A real charm, love at first sight.

The bay crossing with the ferry Vigo-Cangas – an exciting experience, and the view
of the Cíes Islands a unique wonder.