Few tourists, plenty of space and rain in Spain

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Why is everybody so fixated with the Med? I've been pondering this since arriving back from the gloriously unspoilt coastline of Galicia, on Spain's "other seaboard."

Foreign tourists have helped turn kilometers of the Spanish Mediterranean into sunnier versions of their own seaside resorts but few non-Spaniards venture to this wild and stunning stretch of the Atlantic, just north of

Portugal.

True, you are not guaranteed buckets of dawn-to-dusk sunshine every day, but in exchange for the odd cloud and shower spilling in from the Atlantic you are rewarded with green forests, far superior beaches, a spectacular fjord-like coastline and the finest seafood in Spain -- some would say the world. Last weekend, I was blessed with glorious 30?C sunshine accompanied by a cooling breeze which made the heat bearable -- something else you don't get in the Med.

Driving from the awesome cathedral city of Santiago de Compostela (a place where it does seem to rain every day -- it's known as the "urinal of Spain" and when checking in to my hotel I was presented with an umbrella) to the Portuguese border I crossed a succession of beautiful rias, or inlets, surrounded by steep forested hills, scenic coves and superb sandy beaches. These deep blue estuaries, where fresh water meets salt, are the defining characteristic of the Galician coast and filled with an abundance of sea creatures and acres of oyster beds.

En I stopped off to wander through the narrow streets of the splendid old town of Pontevedra and then headed for Vigo for lunch. In a country that dominates the European

fishery, Galicia leads the fleet and Vigo, the regional capital, is the second largest fishing port in the world after Tokyo -- so the docks seemed like the obvious place to head. There's not much to "see" in Vigo but the cobbled streets, bustling port atmosphere and cheap seafood joints around Rua Pescaderia, "fish-market street," are well worth savoring. Everyone in the busy tapas bar I ventured into was tucking into heaped platefuls of pulpo (octopus), Galicia's "national" dish, scallops and tasty, but tough-to-open percebes, unique to the rias.

It was all washed down with ribeiro, a local wine similar to Portuguese vinho verde: young, crisp and perfect with seafood. Try the Vina Costeira, which is delicious and served nearly everywhere.

"You can't miss it," I'd been told when I asked how I'd find my hotel for the weekend, in the small seaside resort of Baiona. Sure enough it was the first thing I saw as I drove into town, and a grin of sheer contentment spread across my face in anticipation -- for the government-owned Parador de Baiona is simply stunning. A regal manor house within a medieval fortress, it stands on a headland that dominates the picturesque bay it was built to protect. As I walked up the grand old granite staircase, swung open the huge windows of my huge oak-beamed room overlooking the ramparts and the shining blue bay, my smile grew even wider. This is the best hotel in Galicia, has one of the most romantic settings in Spain and, with doubles starting at US$138 per night, is one of the best bargains you'll find anywhere.

Even if you're not staying here you can stroll the 3km around the fort on top of the colossal ramparts, have a drink on the terrace and take in the views. Built in the 16th century on the site of a Roman settlement, this impregnable fortress held strong against the man the hotel literature describes as "Drake the pirate." Although, "unfortunately" it continues, the dastardly Englishman "sacked and destroyed nearby Vigo."

On the opposite side of the bay is Praia America, a sweeping arc of sand popular with locals and holidaying Madrilenos, and backed by a boardwalk where couples stroll arm in arm at sunset. It is a fine beach, but the real jewel on this coast lies just outside the bay, a 40-minute boat trip from Baiona. Once an old pirates' haunt, Las Islas Cies is now an uninhabited and pristine national park, open to the public only in summer. To get an overview of the coves and beaches, I climbed the 175m up to the main lighthouse and looked down on seagulls swooping and soaring in front of the jagged granite cliffs that plunge into the ocean. Looking out over this seemingly infinite blue and white expanse of Atlantic, the spot felt like the end of the world. In fact the assumption that the world was flat was consigned to the dustbin of history over in Baiona when the Pinta, one of the smallest caravels in Columbus' first fleet, appeared from over the horizon in 1493, to inform the old world that there was a new one out there, too.

Most people who visit don't get past the first beach near the landing jetty. They come to spend long, lazy summer days on the Praia das Rodas, a perfect crescent of soft pale sand backed by small dunes sheltering a calm lagoon of crystal-clear sea. Locals call this their "Caribbean beach" and the water was turquoise enough, the sand fine and white enough for me to believe this wasn't such a far-fetched comparison. Until I dipped my big toe in the water, that is -- then it felt more like Skegness. Now I understood why Galicia is such a major fishing region: the colder the water, the better the seafood.

The only place to stay the night on the island is an idyllic campsite (bring your own tent), shaded by tall pine trees and with a view over the ocean. There is a decent shop, bar and cafe and, this being Spain, even a proper restaurant. I stayed for an early dinner of rodaballo, fresh and fleshy ultra-white turbot, a Galician speciality which, even in their rich array of seafood, is revered.

When I caught the last boat back to Baiona at sunset, the bar was filling up and some of the hippyish young Spanish campers were strumming guitars.

Galicia one of the few areas of Spain where the Moors left no mark. All the ransacking was done by the Celts -- who left bagpipes and a legacy of melancholy which sets Gallegos apart from the rest of Spain -- and the Portuguese, who influenced the language. Like Basques and Catalans, Gallegos see themselves as slightly apart from the rest of the country, and an even greater percentage of the population speak the regional language than in the Basque country or Catalonia.

Just the border, the Portuguese town of Valenca is set within an impressive 16th-century hill fortress above the Rio Minho, brimming with watchtowers, churches and huge gateways. For centuries, the fort's role was to defend Portugal from Spanish attack, but ironically the town is now invaded every weekend by thousands of Galician daytrippers.

A woman on the next table to me at lunch, chatting on a mobile, explained the attraction. "We're in Portugal ... yeah, we've come to eat bacalhau and buy towels." The Portuguese and Galicians share a love of anything that swims in the sea, so eating this famous Portuguese speciality or marisco (like a sticky version of paella) is one reason they come; the other is cheap bed linen, towels and clothing on sale in the throngs of shops which pack the cobbled streets of the fort. Sadly, it gives this splendid historical town the air of a street market, but I managed to escape the textile touts by venturing off the main drag and into the northern part of the fortress. Here, just like everywhere I'd seen over the border in Galicia, there were few tourists and enough space.