{"id":2789,"date":"2026-08-19T17:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-08-19T16:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/?p=2789"},"modified":"2026-08-19T13:07:40","modified_gmt":"2026-08-19T12:07:40","slug":"a-listowel-couple-retired-to-a-fishing-town-on-galicia%ca%bcs-costa-da-morte-and-say-the-september-weather-is-why-they-stayed","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/a-listowel-couple-retired-to-a-fishing-town-on-galicia%ca%bcs-costa-da-morte-and-say-the-september-weather-is-why-they-stayed\/","title":{"rendered":"A Listowel couple retired to a fishing town on Galicia\u02bcs Costa da Morte and say the September weather is why they stayed"},"content":{"rendered":"

The western edge of Spain has a way of quieting<\/strong> noise and amplifying<\/strong> light. On a sloping street above a granite harbour, two people from Listowel<\/strong> found air that felt familiar<\/strong>, and sea that felt new<\/strong>. They thought they were visiting for a month<\/strong>, but the calendar<\/strong> had other plans.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

From Kerry to the edge of the Atlantic<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

They came from a town of bookshops<\/strong> and fairs, where the River Feale<\/strong> slides under stone arches<\/strong> and gossip moves like soft rain<\/strong>. \u201cWe loved the market<\/strong>, the chats, those golden<\/strong> evenings,\u201d said Maeve, who taught history<\/strong> before the pair packed their final boxes<\/strong>. \u201cBut we kept pointing at maps<\/strong>, and the ocean<\/strong> kept pointing back.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Galicia\u2019s northwest felt anchored<\/strong>, yet always moving<\/strong>. The Costa da Morte<\/strong> looked like Kerry after a storm, but with sharper<\/strong> light and a steadier pulse<\/strong>. \u201cIt was the edge<\/strong> of a map that didn\u2019t feel like an edge<\/strong>,\u201d said Tom, who had fished the Shannon and dreamed<\/strong> of wider swell<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Settling in Mux\u00eda<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

They rented first in Mux\u00eda<\/strong>, a fishing town where granite<\/strong> meets foam and caf\u00e9s serve steam<\/strong> in tiny cups<\/strong>. From their balcony they watched percebeiros<\/strong> inch along slick rock<\/strong>, balancing danger and livelihood<\/strong> on the morning tide<\/strong>. \u201cYou learn the word bravo<\/strong>, meaning fierce sea<\/strong>, very quickly,\u201d Maeve said with a laugh<\/strong>, waving to neighbours stringing nets<\/strong> and shaking out blue tarps<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A priest in a wool jumper<\/strong> pointed them toward a spare flat<\/strong>, and an elderly widow<\/strong> pressed figs into Maeve\u2019s palm<\/strong>. \u201cThat was the moment<\/strong> I felt kept<\/strong>,\u201d she said. A key changed hands<\/strong>, and suddenly the view<\/strong> belonged to their days<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The spell of September<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

They arrived in late summer<\/strong>, and it was September that sealed<\/strong> the deal. \u201cThe heat softens<\/strong>, the wind settles<\/strong>, and the Atlantic turns silvery<\/strong> at six in the evening<\/strong>,\u201d Tom said, watching chop fade into long lanes<\/strong> of light. Crowds thin, the roads feel patient<\/strong>, and the scent of pine<\/strong> slips in from the hills<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cThe sky goes that particular blue<\/strong>, as if someone washed it with salt<\/strong>,\u201d Maeve added. \u201cYou can walk for hours<\/strong> and meet only cats<\/strong> and old men<\/strong> talking about mackerel<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

What September gives<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

September here feels like a handshake<\/strong>, warm but not clammy<\/strong>, and it teaches habits<\/strong> that you end up keeping<\/strong>:<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n
  • Long, late walks<\/strong> on quiet promenades<\/strong>, where one gull can sound like company<\/strong> and the horizon looks reachable<\/strong>.<\/li>\n

    \n<\/ul>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The sun slides low, making the granite<\/strong> glow and the water think<\/strong> it\u2019s a mirror, just until the swell<\/strong> shrugs and breaks the spell<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Weather, faith, and a festival of stone<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    On the headland, the Santuario da Virxe<\/strong> da Barca sits among boulders<\/strong>, a chapel pitched against weather<\/strong> and time\u2019s persistent spray<\/strong>. In early September the romer\u00eda<\/strong> arrives, drums in the distance<\/strong> and stalls selling almonds<\/strong> that crack like tiny thunder<\/strong>. \u201cI cried at the first procession<\/strong>,\u201d Maeve admitted, \u201cbecause the wind kept singing<\/strong>, and the church bells knew the tune<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    That mix of roughness<\/strong> and welcome felt exactly right<\/strong>. \u201cYou need a coat, but you keep your swimsuit<\/strong> nearby,\u201d Tom said, grinning at the logic<\/strong> of it all.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    A day made of small rituals<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Mornings start with a tostada<\/strong>, tomatoes mashed<\/strong> into bread that still remembers the oven<\/strong>. Tom checks the harbour<\/strong>, counts the boats like beads<\/strong>, and notes the wind\u2019s mood<\/strong> before the caf\u00e9s fill with low talk<\/strong>. Maeve opens a thin novel<\/strong>, underlines a word<\/strong>, and watches how the light redraws the room<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    By late afternoon the water invites<\/strong>, cool but not daring<\/strong>, and they wade past slick weed<\/strong> into a brief, bracing silence<\/strong>. \u201cYou come out awake<\/strong>, and the day resets its spine<\/strong>,\u201d Maeve said, twisting a towel into a neat rope<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The taste of staying<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Dinner leans on octopus<\/strong>, potatoes freckled with paprika<\/strong>, and a glass of crisp Albari\u00f1o<\/strong> that sparkles like talk at a good table<\/strong>. The fishmonger nods at Tom\u2019s careful questions<\/strong>, correcting a verb with a wink<\/strong> while weighing a bright-eyed hake<\/strong>. \u201cI never thought I\u2019d love a queue<\/strong> this much,\u201d Tom said, \u201cbut every line is a lesson<\/strong> if you listen to the jokes<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The language comes in layers<\/strong>, as stubborn as barnacles<\/strong>, and as satisfying when they finally loosen<\/strong>. \u201cYou learn to say the weather<\/strong>, then you learn to say how it feels<\/strong>,\u201d Maeve said, touching her chest for the second part<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Edges without hurry<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    They measure weeks in tides<\/strong>, not meetings, in footsteps on promenades<\/strong>, not spreadsheets<\/strong>. When it rains, the town smells like hot stone<\/strong> and pine needles<\/strong>, and the church steps shine like fresh-printed ink<\/strong>. On clearer days the ocean writes its long sentence<\/strong>, clause after clause<\/strong>, and leaves the rest to the next wave<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cPeople think retirement<\/strong> is a door closing,\u201d Tom said, watching clouds edit<\/strong> the sun. \u201cHere it felt like a door held<\/strong> open, and September kept it there<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Weathered, and staying<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    They still miss Listowel<\/strong>, its fast wit<\/strong> and festival rush<\/strong>, but the edge of Galicia holds their pace<\/strong> and answers their questions<\/strong>. \u201cWe found a month that behaves<\/strong> like a home,\u201d Maeve said, knotting her hair against a playful gust<\/strong>. The wind rose, the sea breathed, and the town went about its business<\/strong>, steady as a boat with a practiced hand<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    If you ask why they stayed<\/strong>, they\u2019ll point to the sky just before supper<\/strong>, when the day turns liquid<\/strong> and the stones turn warm<\/strong>. \u201cThat\u2019s our season<\/strong>,\u201d Tom said softly, \u201cand it keeps arriving<\/strong> right on time<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2822,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2789","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-news","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-50"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2789","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2789"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2789\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2800,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2789\/revisions\/2800"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2822"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2789"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2789"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2789"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}