It started as one of those half-decided Sundays. The sky cleared around ten, the sort of light that makes you think you should get outside before it changes its mind. So we packed a flask and set off toward Esteiro. It’s only fifteen minutes from home, but it feels like another world once you reach the coast road.
The tide was halfway in when we arrived. A few fishing boats were resting on their sides, gulls picking through seaweed. Bertie jumped out before I’d even shut the door and ran straight for the sand, tail high, ears back. Patricia called, “Don’t let him eat anything!” which of course meant he found something unspeakable within thirty seconds.
We walked along the shore until the sand turned to rock. The air smelled of salt and old diesel from the harbour. A man in waders was mending nets beside a blue boat with paint flaking off in curls. He nodded and said something about the tide running faster this year. I wasn’t sure if he meant the sea or life in general.
Patricia stopped to take photos of the cliffs. Bertie barked at his own reflection in a rock pool until he scared himself and ran back behind my legs. The clouds rolled in the way they do here, thick and quick. Within minutes the light went silver and it was cold enough for jackets.
We sat on a low wall and poured coffee from the flask. It tasted slightly metallic, as it always does. Bertie flopped between us, damp and happy, pretending not to hope for a biscuit. “He’ll sleep for hours after this,” Patricia said. She was right. He already looked halfway there.
On the way home we stopped at the bakery in Muros. Two empanadas, one still warm, and a biscuit for Bertie handed over with a smile. “Buen chico,” the woman said. He wagged as if he’d understood every word.
Back at the house the tiles were cool, the sky clearing again. Bertie curled up by the door, paws twitching, dreaming of waves. The tide, somewhere out there, was already turning back in.
