The eternal life on the coast of death

I have been living in Galicia for 3 years now and I am still unearthing treasures. Last Sunday we headed west towards the Coast of Death. An ominous name, but, as I later found out, quite apt for the sombre atmospheres of the place.

Our first stop on Costa da Morte is the fishing village of Muxia near what the Romans considered FINIS TERRAE, world’s end, the westernmost tip of continental Europe; despite the low season and the restrictions, the bars on the seafront are bustling with the local youth.

We climb up the steep hill that overlooks the town and walk down on the other side where a baroque church sternly faces the ocean. It withstood high tide and rough sea, but a few years ago it was hit by lightning during a storm and the main altarpiece burned to the ground. So far so doom.

We then drive to Cuño, a few farms scattered on a green valley between Mount Cachelmo and the sea; from there it is a 40 minute scenic walk to point Buitra, a green promontory that plunges into the Atlantic. It also offers the view of the furna Busarana, the cliff from where, according to the legend, a poet was thrown out by an enraged knight whose beautiful daughter Florinda had been seduced by the unfortunate minstrel. I begin to see why Costa da Morte stuck.

It is 9:30 pm now and the sun is setting into the sea, the lighthouse of Cabo Vilan winking in the mist.

The morning after we turn inland and go looking for the albarizas, ancient fortress-like constructions built over 300 years ago by beekeepers to protect their honey from bears and wild other animals. The place fell into oblivion and is not indicated on any maps; even our inquiry by the locals is fruitless. Undeterred we drive to Carantoña, a parish that, according to an article, provides "easy access, close to where two streams marry".

After a false start, where we manage to cross the river Grande but fail to penetrate the thicket, we must return to our car and drive around the mountain. We ascend the Monte Faro, a sanctuary where horses roam freely in the wilderness. According to the article, the albarizas were re-discovered 25 years ago, when the young daughter of a horseman went missing and parties of people combed the thick woodland searching for her.

As we keep driving I finally spot an entrance into the forest, so we pull over and get out of the car. As it turns out, it is a horse trail, that slightly descends to a clearing amid oak and pine trees: we catch a glance of electric blue dragonflies buzzing over wildflowers, before we get used to the humming silence of the forest and hear water flowing nearby. I remember the article “where two streams marry”. We follow the sound and make our way through the bramble and find the spot: the sluggish current of a canal is joined by an exuberant brook that tumbles and foams impatiently. On the other side, behind the laurels, there they are, the walls made of stones.

We need to stoop under the heavy beam of the entrance to access the albariza: inside rows of comb hives are still preserved in dolmen-like boxes covered in moss.

Men have long abandoned the place, but few bees still venture. I remember once hearing that archaeologists found perfectly edible honey inside sealed jars in the pyramids of Egypt.

Honey is eternal, and so is our lust for places and their stories.