Galician Mist

At Baiona, a medieval fortress juts into the Atlantic. Within is a modern manor house built with honey stone on older foundations and furbished as a Parador. Canons and turrets ring the island and a causeway separates it from the mainland.

In the town below hardy pilgrims stamped past, on their way to Santiago, following the lesser-stomped trail up from Portugal. We did our own penance, hauling our luggage up to the hotel from the bus stop under deep blue skies amid map-related arguments.

From the bedroom window the view spanned across the bay to the offshore islands. At least it did until the mist rolled in. Those deep blue skies from a paragraph ago quickly blanked and thickened. From a clear vista of crashing waves, you suddenly couldn’t see the hand on the end of your arm. It was strange and amazing and I couldn’t stop staring at the place where the view used to be.

The mist lay thick and low and as the streetlights flickered on, dim yellows swirled into the mix. Suddenly, the whole cloud lifted and the view was back, the evening silhouette of the earlier panorama. The bay looked sharp and the tips of the waves so white against the night. I turned away, searching for a camera. By the time I unearthed it, the mist was back and I wondered if I imagined the whole thing.