LOST HIGHWAY. PARADISE GAINED

The route AP9 was built over the last 50 years and is the only highway that runs through Galicia. From the northern shipyards of Ferrol and the port of Coruña, it travels for over 200 km down the jagged western coast up to the river Minho that marks the border with Portugal.

To chase away the winter blues, we begrudgingly drove past the toll booth and headed south. After leaving behind the spires of Santiago and even before reaching the spectacular bridge of Rande that spans 9 km over the Vigo bay, we were welcome by the views of the valleys stretching under the crisp January sky. Unlike the millions time we rode it together, this time we were too early to catch the sight of the huge shrubs of gorse (toxo) that bloom in spring and too late for the scotch broom (xesta) that usually holds up with the same yellow exuberance until autumn.

But as we raced over the viaduct of Salnés, making plans about our evening, I distractedly looked out of my window, to get a glimpse maybe of the river Umia, as announced by the road sign: instead yellow canopies of mimosas bending over a sun-soaked path flashed underneath like a postcard from an ancient dream. I checked the location on my phone: the nearest settlement was a village called Paraíso.

By the early evening we had arrived at our airBnB, a restored windmill on the aptly named playa do Muiño, nestled under a pine grove between the river mouth and the mount of Santa Tecla. At night we walked along the ocean up to the town of A Guarda and back, retracing our steps in the dark, the lights of Carminha, the first city in Portugal, blinking on the horizon. The day after we returned to Coruña, but I could not wait to retrieve my lost postcard.

So, the following week I set off alone on my private quest, same route, drove past Santiago, past the valleys and got off before the viaduct. I thought it would have been easy to locate the spot. I did find Paraíso, heavenly indeed, well-tended orchards among the winding lanes, but also on the wrong side of the river. I could see the mimosa in the far end and an old bridge that ended halfway into the waters, weed gleaning under the strong currents. I climbed a desolate hill covered in eucalyptus, flayed alive like Marsya, their skins hung to dry on the thistle. The trails multiplied like in a maze and always took me back to the same spot after exhausting detours. I was aware of the sun quickly setting, as I walked yet again into another dead end, slippery mud and grass up to my knees. I turned back, reached a crossing, and chose a path I hoped I had not taken before.

The familiar fragrance, from gardens and parks I knew from my childhood, put a spring in my steps. Down a ravine, under my feet I finally saw people strolling under the branches laden with the yellow flower. I rushed down and burst out onto the path. It is called Via Verde and it used to be the old track between the spa town of Caldas the Rei and the peninsula of Villagarcia, until the highway was built over it and kept it hidden in the underpass.

I spent the rest of evening basking in the extravagant glory of the trees that grow along the Umia. Toward the end, by chance or by design I reached the point I had seen from the highway. The sun was very low, seeping through the acacias like burnished copper. And as I look up, I saw us, in the car, speeding toward our destination, golden dreams, light-hearted, propelling ourselves toward the future, which was now my past.