Getting to A Coruña, and onwards to Ferrol

Firstly a massive thank you to Mr & Mrs B for rising early and transporting us to Heathrow. As is virtually always the case these days, a flight booked via BA to Spain ends up being operated by Iberia, so it’s off to the horrible dated dump that is Terminal 3 rather than the glistening T5. Either way we’re fleeced £5 for 30 seconds of sensationally exciting drop off. I’m really sorry for the language, but this remains the ultimate f’ing rip off of post-Thatcherite Britain. 

Anyway, what we lack in lustre in the terminal we make up for on the plane. None of the bog standard A319/320/321 variants. Today we have a lovely wide-body 330-200 with enough in-seat gizmos to keep me entertained for the relatively short hop to Madrid.


What a beauty


I’ve decided that layovers are a pain. You never quite know what hoops you’ll have to jump through. Invariably in a quite a rush too. Madrid’s Barajas airport didn’t disappoint. Going through “passports” was no great shock. The “todas pasaportes” queue was negligible. However, having to go through the full security scanning razzmatazz was bloody irritating. As you know, when I’m in an airport I’m not overly patient or understanding. Being told to remove my boots resulted in some  brusque Muttley style muttering, and under the breath expletives. 

The other worry with relatively short layovers (in this case 90 minutes) is whether your checked in luggage will make the outbound plane in time. Now, I’ve done loads of short layovers, but only once with checked in luggage attempting to follow me. On that occasion the bag decided to have an extended sojourn in Lisbon. Couldn’t happen again could it? Well it’s the same bag; and wait a minute, it was on the very same day (30 May) last year. Oh dear!

Said bag has now been renamed “Barry the Bastard Backpack”. Of course he stayed in Madrid, leaving us forlorn at A Coruña airport.Armed with just day bags and an extra pair of socks and undies the 6 day walk was looking even more challenging, and well, smelly! The queue at the baggage desk indicated that we were not alone. 



The lady at the desk reassured us that Iberia had another flight coming in from Madrid at 9pm, so we just needed to pop back up to the airport to pick up the bag once the plane had landed. Of course, when you’re only armed with a 62 year old pair of feet and legs “popping back up” is not an easy option. And, no, coming back to the airport tomorrow, as we’ll be on a train to Ferrol, is not an option. Yes Iberia will have to stump up for a courier to deliver the bag that evening. Well, in fairness to them, they did, and Barry arrived at our hotel at 23.15. Being reasonable, I called Barry a couple of bad words and gave him a light kicking in the lift up to our room.


Bazza gets booted

Whilst Barry was in transit we had a wander around A Coruña and indulged in tapas and racciones. The weather was typically Galician I.e. low moody clouds and occasional rain. Relatively calm compared to  our landing into A Coruña, where the pilot gave the impression that due to thunderstorms it was 50/50 that we’d be able to land. We certainly saw lightning aplenty as we began our approach. 

Today (Wednesday) has been relatively straightforward. There was a certain frisson between the two pilgrims “early doors”, but a quick “Brian Clough chat”** sorted that. The best thing to follow that was a quick dip in the Atlantic. And yes it was fff-freezing cold, but invigorating.


We walked up to the near beachside football stadium “El Riazor”, and that has now attained “must see a game there” status. Then around the city, which is deceptively charming. We didn’t get to see its iconic Torre de Hercules..






Out and about in A Coruña

The train to Ferrol beckoned, for we have business to attend to. The 90 minute train journey was rather splendid, largely hugging the Galician coastline up-to Ferrol. The naval city of Ferrol is not a beauty, but then again, the place where the jolly old stick General Franco, was born is unlikely to have the charm and repartee of Southwold pier, Nevertheless the sun did put its hat on, and the Camino spirit beckoned. That “spirit” resulted in our first “in hotel room washing line” of the trip. And if I may say, it was a triumph for my goodself over the doubting elements on the tour. 



And so we took a jaunty stroll down to the port, got our Camino passports stamped and began the business in earnest. Okay, we’ve only walked a mile, back to our hotel, but we’re on our way. At bloody last! Buen Camino amigos.



They’re off

** a full, frank and detailed exchange of views followed by acknowledgement that I was in the wrong


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