Cap de Creus, where the Pyrenees ends, falling into the sea in a riot of schist and fantastical erosion. Last year’s sky swept clean by the Tramuntana wind, crystal clear light. Salvador’s childhood landscape, Dalí’s dreamscape.

Cap de Creus, where the Pyrenees ends, falling into the sea in a riot of schist and fantastical erosion. Last year’s sky swept clean by the Tramuntana wind, crystal clear light. Salvador’s childhood landscape, Dalí’s dreamscape.


Official stamp of the Basque border town of Hondarribia, dated 1335, showing the hunting of a Right Whale (Ballena de los vascos in Spanish). With local whales decimated by the end of the Middle Ages, Basque whalers found new population off Newfoundland, reaching these territories by the early C16th or even before.
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Lobster pots, Bueu harbour near Vigo. I miss Galicia and the smell of the Atlantic, stronger and fresher from that here in the Mediterranean.

Some time ago I sneaked inside the abandoned whaling station at Cangas de Morrazo run by the Massó family tinning company. There are remains of another small whaling factory in the Cíes’ southernmost island.
This was more or less where in 1980 Galicia’s and Spain’s whaling industry ended. The factory is in a right mess. It would make a great site for a museum to the history of that evocative, cruel and sorry business.
