The sun was out in full force, the roads empty enough to make me feel like a rally driver, and—miracle of miracles—Mary wasn’t giving me the usual side-eye grip of terror. Small wins.
Playa de las Catedrales. Big name, bigger reputation. The kind of place travel blogs love to scream about. Rock formations so dramatic they look CGI’d. Natural arches, golden sand, postcard-perfect everything.
The catch? You gotta time it right. High tide? You’re out of luck—just a whole lot of water swallowing up the beauty. Low tide? Nature rolls out the red carpet, revealing rock towers and cave corridors straight out of some lost-world movie.
We parked, switched into beach gear, and headed down, cameras cocked and loaded.
And yeah. It lived up to the hype.
One of those rare spots that makes you freeze mid-step and mutter something profound like, “Damn.” You’ve seen a million pictures, but standing there? Different game.
Obviously, we took enough photos to bore future dinner guests senseless. I attempted an adventurer pose against one of the arches, misjudged the tide, and walked back to Mary with seawater sloshing in my shoes. She was thrilled. “Scrapbook material,” she grinned, snapping evidence.
Ribadeo was next. A lazy, late lunch in a tiny harbor café—fresh octopus, chilled Albariño, the sun making everything a little slower, a little better. Fishermen hauling nets, kids chasing seagulls, an elderly couple swaying to an accordion player giving it his all. “This,” Mary said, lifting her glass, “is what retirement should feel like.”
For once, I didn’t argue.
The afternoon unraveled itself. Grand mansions, colourful fishing cottages, Mary lost in a ceramics shop while I claimed a bench with an estuary view and a rare moment of complete stillness.
As the sun sank, we climbed into Wanderlust, our rolling home, and chased the next stretch of road.
A Night in Viveiro
Ribadeo to Viveiro—one of those roads that makes you want to narrate your own travel documentary. Sharp turns, cliffs straight down into the sea, views so ridiculous they make you consider watercolors. Mary suggested I stick to driving.
Viveiro? Instant charm. Stone streets that have seen centuries of footsteps, a waterfront balancing perfectly between quaint and rugged, enough history to keep Mary fascinated while I searched for a bar.
Wanderlust got the night off. We treated ourselves to a guesthouse with a balcony just big enough for Mary to stake her reading claim.
We wandered the old quarter, cobblestones leading us nowhere in particular, through the looming Porta de Carlos V. “I’d rather defend this place than invade it,” I mused. “You’d be useless at both,” Mary said, not even looking up.
Dinner? Sidrería. No menus, just a cider-pouring spectacle and an owner determined to induct us properly. The Asturian way—holding the bottle high, pouring dramatically into the glass below. I gave it a go and decorated the floor. Locals loved it.
The food? Pulpo a la gallega. Simple. Perfect. Olive oil, paprika, octopus so tender it rewired my brain. I’d always been suspicious of tentacles, but Mary, in her endless wisdom, watched smugly as I converted on the spot.
And then, because cider-fueled generosity is a real thing, we got swept into a “friendly” drinking contest. The challenge? Drink the most cider while maintaining dignity. I failed spectacularly. Mary handled it with her usual grace. Should’ve seen that coming.
By the time we wobbled out, full and grinning, Viveiro had fully claimed us. The streets were hushed, sea air cool, laughter spilling from doorways. “I could live here,” Mary murmured, leaning into me.
“You say that in every town,” I reminded her.
Tomorrow? More coastline, more winding roads, more “potential homes” added to Mary’s ever-growing list. But for now? A tiny room, a tinier balcony, and another night of memories we didn’t see coming.
