Time spent in Galicia centred on the coast for the first years: the tiny tower in Estribela, trips to Vigo and Pontevedra, a boyfriend in Bueu. Horizons widened when I met a man who lived in the mountains, ‘al interior’, and moved my attentions to all that lies inland. When the romance fell away, a valid friendship emerged. The shaky start initially proved that ‘Spanish men aren’t the answer’ as my best mate pointed out, and then further proved that good friends appear in different guises.
Last summer, hours of halting Spanish small talk were the more laboured part of long drives through the Galician mountains, winding along the river Minho and pit-stopping at the ‘termas’, hot springs driven from below ground. Some, like in Bande, on the border with Portugal, are free to use and accessible from the river’s edge, and others, like Prexigueiro, are styled into a Japanese spa. Here, for only a few euros you can soak in mineral pools ranging from 17- 64 degrees, cool off in plunge pools and collapse onto sun loungers, with a fragrant backdrop of pine forests. The sulphurous water turns silver jewellery black (scrub it clean with toothpaste) and can linger on your skin for days, but the sulphur, sodium, silica and lithium-rich waters are celebrated for their therapeutic properties on the respiratory and dermatological systems, and it’s hard not to leave feeling that horizontal is the way forward. The outdoor cafe completes the set up.
The Roman baths at Bande, close to the Portuguese border, were flooded, ‘inundado’, after heavy rainfall when we dropped in, parking between the trees and butted up to the water’s edge. I swam in the river oblivious; it was only when I saw a photo taken there a few weeks later that the hidden stone enclosures, seating and bathing areas were revealed. Hard to believe when the swollen river renders it all invisible.
Holy drinking water flows in nearby Panton, ‘Augas santas’, with strong notes of boiled egg. I’m already used to driving to the local fountain to collect spring water, recommended by my neighbour as being far more potable than tap water. Often there’s a queue of people, each with an assortment of plastic bottles, but the sulphurous mineral water in Panton is in another league. ‘Pungent’ and ‘water’ aren’t two words that sit together in my book; I’ll stick to the fragrance-free stuff and throw in a handful of supplements for any lurking mineral deficiencies.
We attempted to try one riverside hot spring without the mandatory footwear and were ushered off by the attendant. My strong-willed friend didn’t take kindly to being shoo-ed away and briefly bathed despite the attendant threatening to call the police. Not for the first time since arriving in Galicia, the police appeared for a minor incident; summoned for a flip-flop fail.
