To the Romans, Cape Finisterre was the literal end of the world. Here civilisation ended and the vast emptiness of the Atlantic Ocean began. Great seafarers though they were, neither the Romans, or the Carthaginians and Greeks before them, could imagine anything beyond this stretch of water. Early morning, with the sun rising over Finisterre lighthouse, it’s not difficult to see why they believed this rocky outcrop was the western most extreme of Europe.
It took close to a thousand years for Columbus to prove the Romans wrong, when he stumbled upon the Americas in 1492. They weren’t even right about Cape Finisterre, the most westerly point in mainland Europe is Cabo da Roca in Portugal. It’s not even the most westerly point in Spain, an accolade held by Cabo Touriñán to the north. It may no longer be where the world ends, but Finisterre (Fisterra in Galician) is still the end of the Camino de Santiago.
To mark the end point of the journey to reach the cape, hikers are greeted by a stone cross and a metal walking boot. Both overlook the vast expanse of water that stretches for thousands of kilometres before hitting the Americas. As we stood admiring the sunrise, a dense ocean fog rolled over us and shrouded land and sea in a thick blanket of white. In the fog, it really did feel like the end of the world.
Finisterre lighthouse, built in 1853, sits on top of cliffs that are relentlessly pounded by Atlantic waves. This whole coastline is the same: cliffs and roaring ocean. The small historic fishing village of Finisterre feels almost like a haven from the wildness of the coastline. The tightly packed narrow streets designed to keep the wind and storms out. We, though, arrived late in the afternoon in glorious sunshine.
Tourism may now compete with fishing as the main industry in Finisterre, but this community has depended on the sea for its livelihood since time immemorial. The harbour is still the heart and main focus of the town, and fishing boats still outnumber the leisure craft bobbing in the sheltered waters behind the harbour wall. In the soft late afternoon sun, it’s a beautiful sight.
In front of the harbour, a row of bars and restaurants serve up Galician specialities and some of the best seafood, particularly shellfish, you’re ever likely to taste. In amongst swankier places is Miramar, a down to earth spot that caters to locals as much as tourists. We snagged a window table with views over the harbour and tucked into an array of shellfish and discovered raxo, a Galician pork dish.
We were staying a short walk from the glorious Praia do Mar de Fóra, a golden strip of sand sitting between two headlands. Waves crashed into the beach and signs warned of the dangerous undertow. What they should have warned about was the astonishingly frigid water temperature. This was the coldest water of any part of the coast we visited on this trip. Still, it’s a great place to spend a few hours building up an appetite.
A boardwalk from the beach leads back to the town. We found a quiet restaurant in pretty Praza da Constitución for a late lunch, after which we explored through the narrow lanes and alleys of the town. It’s a pretty place that in summer is lively with visitors and, I suspect, deceptively charming. The long, harsh winter months must be a real challenge. Even in summer, the weather can spring surprises.
The next day dawned bright and sunny. We headed off early to catch the sunrise at the lighthouse, shortly after we arrived the fog swept in and obscured everything. It was still obscuring everything hours later as we walked down Finisterre’s main beach, the Praia Da Langosteira. It still clung to the land the next day when we set off north to Muxia, at which point we were debating how long a sea fog could last.
