Sunsets at the end of the world are, oddly enough, very joyous and communal. I'd always associated frontiers with melancholy and the individual. Like when Clint Eastwood rides off into the sunset. Or was that John Wayne?
At Fisterra, though, the scores of tourists and pilgrims at the lighthouse scramble (at a little after 8 PM, at the time I was there) to find a suitable westward-facing rock on the practically-cliff-like sides of Monte Facho. No one ever wants for one for long, though: there are as many rocks there as grains of sand in a good-sized beach. The trick, though, is deciding exactly how much nerve you've got. Monte Facho is, I remember reading somewhere, around 250 metres above sea level. Falling off from this height could definitely lead to a broken finger or two. Maybe even three.
So you have most people clustering around near the top, while the braver folks venture to climb down a little further and find a more isolated rock. I think I even noticed one or two who'd managed to get almost to sea level. Once everyone's had their seats, there's silence, save for the odd annoying click of the camera. Not that I should complain. (But I only took one or two snaps.)
The frequency of the clicks reduce as the sun descends closer and closer to the ocean and holds the whole lot spell-bound. And finally, as the last of it disappears into the sea, the clapping and the cheering.
Un film del universo.*
*Anyone coming in here to criticise my Spanish will be dealt with very harshly.