Dawned clear bright and windless. I mentioned the trip last time so proceed from our after arrival procedures.  Two forms becoming a noticeable pattern in our cruising are wanting to see Zoonie through a night at anchor, if there is a fresh wind, before venturing ashore and leaving her and second: placing waypoints for our next destination while we have just arrived at the current one. These are ways of building confidence and preparation for any event.

Monday 6th July

People of our age and situation do various things to fill their time; take up watersports, enrol with the U3A, spot trains, twitch birds, but we lean lighthouses (or so it seems). They seem like an interesting target to walk to, and then the pleasure of walking back, usually to a friendly looking ba,r fills half a day nicely. It was a gentle up hill climb from the pretty harbour village to Finisterre Faro standing proud and prominent above the ocean. There were only a handful of people there and I was surprised by the atmosphere of quiet reverence that was unmistakeable. People had left personal, colourful items there as if to keep a material connection with the purpose of the place, to keep safe fishermen and sailors. Granite blocks had iron rings fixed to them that led over the rocky edge, maybe to facilitate rescues and to some people had fixed locks to forever seal the love of the people named on them. A communication aerial, made of steel angled struts had been climbed many times and scarves, handkerchiefs and ribbons flew from all heights. It reminded me of temples of Buddhist worship high in the Himalayas.

Beer, Gambas (prawns) and bread made up our lunch then the next layer of tan was carefully applied in the cockpit in the afternoon.

The next morning was grey, raining and the wicked wind had turned south. But this time we could not let it stop us as there was no sanctuary in the form of a marina at Finisterre and another blow was on its way. We headed of again under motor, in the fog, rocks and fishing boats popping up all over the chartplotter and radar screens (worry not, we had planned a route to account for the rocks!)

Four and a half hours later we tied up in Portosin Marina, where we shall stay for today, do some washing, catch up on internet matters etc.

Yesterday eve we walked into Portosin to find a once attractive fishing port of typical Galician homes, with glazed balconies, wider upper stories and pantilled roofs, completely overshadowed by many ugly concrete blocks of apartments built in some frenzied seventies expectation of boom years when people could afford holiday homes and maybe received grants that fuelled building without planning or forethought. But they got it right with the Yacht Club. Pleasant design to suit visitors and locals of all ages with emphasis not just on marine services but also teaching sailing and ball and court games. It was well used and appears to have thrived since the seventies with glass cupboards full of awards for this that and the other. Best part was the soft sofas and view from the bar/dining room windows. 

As I write the wind is howling away, drying our washing nicely, fixed onto temporary lines with wooden pegs that grip the best. Can't have our undies flying over towards the fishing wharf! I just had a scare. As I was tapping away suddenly a loud hissing noise pushed out of the sailing clothes locker as the bright orange guts of my life jacket filled with gas. Don't know what caused it but reassured it would do the same if it had to in earnest, with me in it.