Boondock Puffins

After bidding a fond, slightly soggy farewell to Santiago de Compostela, and hastily wolfing down yet another emergency baguette lunch (because, as it turns out, everything in Spain closes on a Sunday except the bakeries and perhaps divine providence), we pointed the bike southwest, hugging the Atlantic coast with mild optimism.

The journey to Sanxenxo (a charmingly unpronounceable town perched on one of Galicia’s many peninsular fingers) was, if we’re being brutally honest, a bit forgettable. A few vineyards popped up here and there, looking smug in the sun, but otherwise it was a fairly average hour or so of riding. The kind of route where your mind wanders and you spend ten minutes wondering how many types of ham Spain actually has. (The answer is: more than you’d think. Possibly infinite.)

We reached Camping Monte Cabo by early afternoon. It’s a sweet little place clinging to the top of a cliff, clearly designed by someone who believes in sea views, dramatic winds, and not quite enough level ground. The sun was blazing, the wind howled like a moody teenager, and for the first time in a while, we found ourselves with that rare luxury on a road trip: time.

We set up camp, wrestled briefly with a rebellious guy rope, and then sat down – actually sat down! – with books, laptops, and half-formed job applications. (Nothing puts you in the mood to write a cover letter like a strong gust of Atlantic wind flipping your CV into the next field.)

Laundry was hung, more in hope than expectation, and we turned our attention to the ever-growing problem of one leaky mattress. It now inflates confidently for about 90 minutes before slowly giving up and depositing its occupant gently, bum-first, onto the cold, uneven ground. It’s a unique sleeping sensation: part camping, part chiropractic emergency.

Dinner that night was the kind of meal that can only come from the strange alchemy of leftovers. Broccoli, some bacon bits, a lone spring onion, bread with olive oil, and a quiet sense of culinary triumph. If Michelin gave stars for “pan-fried fridge sweepings eaten with a headtorch,” we’d be well on our way.

As the sun began to dip, we poured hot chocolate into a flask and wandered out for a sunset stroll along the cliffs. It was one of those moments that feels faintly scripted – cliff edge, golden light, just enough breeze to make your hair interesting but not annoying – and then, just as the stars were beginning to peek through, fireworks erupted from a nearby town.

To this day, we have absolutely no idea why. No local festival, no public holiday, no obvious cause. Just a town somewhere deciding Sunday night was a perfectly reasonable time to launch explosives into the sky. It was beautiful, to be fair, although it also scared the absolute daylights out of every bird in a 10-mile radius. One particularly disgruntled gull nearly gave us a parting gift as it flew overhead at speed, but we made it out unscathed.

Later, back at camp, we made hot water bottles (essential kit, we are not animals), phoned home, and plotted the next leg of our journey. The plan, such as it is, is to head vaguely toward Porto. We’ll follow random brown tourist signs – those reliably odd pointers to castles, vineyards, fishing museums and the occasional model village – and stop for coffee as often as is reasonable, or possibly unreasonable.

Because if we’ve learned anything so far, it’s that the best travel days are often the ones you never meant to have in the first place.