Vigo
Vigo is Iberian Spain’s most westerly city. Known as the “gate to the Atlantic”, it’s right on the coast and is known for its excellent fresh seafood. It claims to be a place where the sea and the city are symbiotic, but when compared to other places we had been — A Coruña, San Sebastian — it was hard to not feel just a little bit sceptical about this grand claim. Even so, there are plenty of things to recommend Vigo. It’s got history, having been established by the Romans but occupied long before that. It’s got good food and nearby beaches and plenty of parks, plazas, and cafes. We explored on our only full day in the area, and found plenty to enjoy.
I really wanted to see the Castro de Vigo, a partially-reconstructed pre-Roman settlement, but we hadn’t factored in the Spanish siesta or the strange hours that quirky tourist attractions seem to keep. When we arrived at Castro de Vigo, the gate was firmly closed. They were only open, it turns out, 11am-1pm Tuesday to Friday, and 5–7pm on Saturdays. Instead, we climbed up to the Parque del Monte Castro, a landscape garden park that stretches up the hill to where the old castle used to sit. The park itself was beautiful, though it was a tough workout getting up there! At the top we got a lovely view of the harbour and the bay, with the city behind us on the other side.
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We were staying a little bit outside Vigo, at a campsite in a village called Cesantes. When we arrived and checked in, the woman running the campsite walked out of reception with us, past an elderly man asleep in a chair. She said something to Liam in Spanish, and he laughed. Translating, he said, “She says her Dad is old and lazy, but he’s a cheap security guard.”
The campsite was small, well-maintained, and incredibly friendly. Children played together on the steps of the bathroom block and in between the tents. People nodded to us as they went past us, and told us how good our cooking smelled. There were lots of families and older people, and everyone went to bed at 11pm. In the morning, Liam and I went for a jog along the beach 5 minutes away, and in the evenings we would sit on the soft sand and watch the sunset.
Our beach overlooked a small group of islands called Illa de San Simon. From where we sat on the beach, we could see a large house on the main island, and some other smaller structures peeking out from the trees. We speculated over who might live there, how many visitors they would get, and how lonely it might feel. On our second and final evening, we did some more Googling and found that actually the building we could see was not a house at all, but had begun life as a quarantine hospital. More recently, the island had been used as a prison and torture camp during the Spanish Civil War. Later still, it became an orphanage for boys. Now, the island is known as the “Island of Thought” and there is a cultural centre and events space for things like concerts. Still, the tranquil sunset was somewhat dulled knowing that the island we could see had not always been a place of calm serenity, and had for many, been a place of unimaginable horror.
A theme I have noticed on our travels throughout Spain is the conspicuous silence with regards the Civil War and Franco’s rule. There is little mention of it in any of the museums or art galleries we’ve been to, and no plaques or references to it in public plazas or parks. This deliberate omission is partly due to the “pact of forgetting”, a legally ratified agreement by the Spanish government to not focus on the past and to instead look forwards, to the future of Spain. This is totally different to the personal histories I’ve inherited — the Holocaust, anti-semitism, two World Wars — where intentional remembering is an absolutely fundamental part of avoiding similar atrocities in the future.
Beyond the Sangria, sunshine, and tapas, I’m learning that Spain is a complicated and rather secretive country. People are friendly, and it’s easy to have a good time here. But you have to look carefully to find the good stuff, the things no one speaks openly about, the juicy half-remembered gossip. It’s usually there if you try — with a little help from Google.
