We left Cedeira later than planned because the baker started talking about his nephew’s scooter. Coast road west, slow going. Sea on the left, bends that make you sit up. Low cloud again.
A small sign for Ermita de San Antonio de Corveiro popped up by a bend. White chapel, short pull-in under pines. We parked. Bertie did a quick circle and sneezed at the wind.
The door was locked. A woman crossed from the house opposite with a heavy keyring. Cardigan, sensible shoes, no rush.
“Podemos ver la ermita?” Patricia asked.
“Sí,” the woman said. “Un minuto.” She chose one key, turned it twice, and pushed the door with her shoulder.
Inside smelled like candle smoke and damp stone. On the altar, little painted boats. Chips in the paint, names in tiny letters.
“De los marineros,” she said. “Para dar gracias.”
“¿Y el techo?” I asked, pointing at a patched bit of timber.
“Tormenta del ochenta y siete,” she said. “Se llevó medio tejado. Lo arreglamos entre todos.”
We kept voices low. Patricia lit a candle and stood quiet for a minute. Bertie waited outside with his nose in the gap.
“¿Entra el agua?” I asked.
“A veces el viento manda sal,” she said. “Pero el mar no gana.” She smiled once, locked the door again, and waved. Keys clanked in her hand as she walked back across the lane.
We ate on the bench. Bread and a soft cheese from Ortigueira market, the kind wrapped in leaves. Water from an old bottle. The wind made the cheese paper flap.
“Layer for tomorrow,” Patricia said, zipping her jacket. “If it’s like this, no long cliff walks.”
“Bench at Loiba if the sky clears,” I said. “Or inland. The eucalyptus track above Cerdido looked dry from the road.”
“Market first,” she said. “Tomatoes, onions, eggs. And we promised to message your sister.”
Bertie grumbled like he agreed with the tomatoes.
A small car pulled in, couple from A Coruña by the plates. We said hello, waved toward the chapel and the house. The woman leaned out of her door, saw them, and lifted the keys a little like a question. They nodded back. Routine here.
We talked routes. If sun, then Loiba for the bench and maybe a short path toward the old quarry. If grey, then the river walk behind the sports ground in Cedeira. Safer under trees if it spits. Patricia wanted to sketch boats in the port either way. I said I’d check tides before we set off.
“Tea at the campsite,” Patricia said. “And we need washing powder.”
“I’ll write today up after dinner,” I said. “Keep it simple.”
“Please,” she said. “No poems.”
On the drive back the cloud lifted for a few minutes. Enough to see the edge of the headland and the chapel sitting plain as a toolbox. No drama. Just there doing its job. Bertie slept across both our jackets and snored when the road smoothed out.
Practical notes for us when we read this later. The pull-in is small. Turn with care. Keep the dog on a lead near the edge. Stone is slick. If you want to see inside, ask at the house. Be polite. Bring a coin for a candle. No bins. Take everything with you.
Evening plan. Tea, then a warm shower, then map check for tomorrow. I’ll look up the Loiba tide and the wind. If it looks rough we go inland and save the cliff for a clearer day. Patricia will charge the sketchbook light. I’ll message my sister and send her the photo of the keyring woman. She will say it looks like Whitby in winter and she will not be wrong.
