I have always longed to be a lighthouse keeper and now, at last, I am one. If only for the weekend. Look at my chunky-knit jumper! Feel the waterproof weave of my Donegal tweed cap! Truth be told, I am way too toasty in this quasi-nautical ensemble, having hoped and dressed for ominous fog, murderous gales and oceanic rainstorms. Instead, it is bright, calm and warm on an early spring afternoon in the famously pretty fishing village of Cudillero in Asturias, where the Costa Verde of northern Spain drops away into the deep blue Bay of Biscay.
Built in 1858, the local lighthouse – the Faro de Cudillero – stands on a shelf of rock just beyond the harbour, a short walk up stone steps and along a narrow cliff side service path. Its hexagonal beacon tower has been remodelled a few times over the years. The signal lamp inside was first fuelled by olive oil, then paraffin and petrol, before being electrified and eventually automated. With no further need for a human operator, its sturdy keeper’s cottage was left derelict decades ago. It’s sad to contemplate that absence, and the general obsolescence of the role itself. But if I can’t man the light, I can at least occupy the lighthouse.
