By Max Milano (Travel Writer & Photographer)
The moment I heard that Spain’s 2026 total solar eclipse would enter the Iberian Peninsula over A Coruña, one thought came to mind.
The eclipse would occur in the early evening, about an hour before sunset. That created a rare opportunity to place something remarkable in the foreground. And what could be better than a 2,000-year-old Roman lighthouse, the Tower of Hercules, standing guard over the entrance to A Coruña’s harbor?
There was only one problem. Many others had the same idea.
A Coruña City Council, in its infinite wisdom, responded by restricting access to the best photography locations, the very places where photographers could capture the eclipsed sun directly above the lighthouse.
In the days before the eclipse, the official warnings became increasingly dire. The entire area surrounding the tower would be closed. Some reports even claimed that the waterfront road would be shut to traffic.
It was party-pooper central: a masterpiece of overcontrol, perhaps born from the belief that the city could somehow manage the sun and the moon.
And so, on the day of this wondrous event, I found myself in a far-from-wondrous location: beside a busy road, with passersby staring at my two tripods and 500-millimeter lens.
Worse, I was nowhere near the angle I needed to place the eclipse above the lighthouse.
For two days, the press, the “official photographers,” and the lighthouse staff had told us in no uncertain terms that the surrounding area would be off-limits. We were instructed to watch from a designated location miles away, on top of a hill.
Everyone seemed obsessed with getting us “up a hill.”
You do not need to be on a hill to see an eclipse. The sun is already in the sky.
So yes, I was fuming. Instead of standing among the Menhirs for Peace, that strange, neo-Neolithic stone formation just down the coast from the lighthouse, I was forced to set up beside the busy promenade road at a miserable angle. From the Menhirs, I could have framed the crescent sun above both the stones and the Tower of Hercules. I would also have enjoyed some privacy from the hordes wandering along the waterfront promenade.
Instead, I had to shoot wide and place the sun as far from the lighthouse as the frame would allow. It was the only composition available from where I had been pushed.
Fortunately, my close-ups with the 500-millimeter lens would not suffer. The sun was in the sky, and a close-up is a close-up.
What I did have to endure was a gathering of Galician grandmothers who, overcome by curiosity, had stopped their afternoon promenade and installed themselves inches from my camera equipment. Then they proceeded to chat and gossip in their thick, Galician-accented Castilian as if they were sitting in their living rooms and the eclipse were nothing more than a rumor they didn’t quite believe.
The moon was about to swallow the sun, but the coven of Galician grandmothers had their local gossip to discuss, very loudly. Then the fog rolled in.
Shit.
I should have stayed in the cloudless plateau.
A Sunflower Field Outside León: Three Days Earlier
We live in Valencia, so getting to A Coruña for the eclipse means crossing the entire Iberian Peninsula, from east to northwest. Much of that journey is spent on La Meseta, the arid plateau that rises abruptly from the Valencian coast, and by the time you reach Cuenca, you are nearly 3,000 feet above sea level.
In summer, this cloudless plateau is dotted with sunflower fields and, this year, wildfire smoke.
I’m standing beside a field outside León, looking across a golden carpet of sunflowers. It is almost the exact time when totality will occur three sunsets from now. The sky has that deep, cloudless blue of a Castilian summer. There is barely any wind. Soft hills roll toward the horizon across a landscape criss-crossed by Roman roads.
The sun hangs above the sunflowers as the time when totality will occur arrives.
This is the perfect setting for an eclipse photo: a cloudless sky, an unobstructed view to the west, and a golden field of sunflowers. The sun is still surprisingly high because summer sunsets come late in Spain.
I take a few pictures and ponder our decision to watch the eclipse from A Coruña. Atlantic fog is always a possibility there, but we visited the previous August and had sunshine.
“What do you think?” I ask my wife as the evening light turns the sunflower field into a carpet woven with gold threads.
“I say we risk it for a biscuit.”
And that is that. The die is cast. We will risk the fogs of Galicia instead of staying with the certainty of this sunflower field outside León, all because of a Roman lighthouse.
We get back in the car and return to the small village we passed on the way. We are in wine country, although this must be one of its lesser towns. Not that the wine towns of Rioja or Rivera del Duero are especially glamorous, but no one would accuse this place of excessive glamour.
We drive into town and find everything closed, as things always are in these small towns on the plateau before eight in the evening. Everyone is either having a siesta or sitting outside their front door, waiting for the heat to break.
In the main square, the little town hall displays a statue of a wine barrel. Groups of locals stand around drinking wine. Across the street is a small funfair with an open-air stage, a few stalls selling drinks and ice cream, and a rickety Ferris wheel.
We park and wander through it. They are still setting up.
The band preparing onstage is called The Last Legion, a nod to the Romans who crossed this region and left their roads, bridges and vineyards behind.
We buy gelato and ask the vendor when the band will start.
“Midnight,” he says.
It is barely nine, and the sun is still out.
“Let’s go to León,” I say. Golden hour is waiting.
Faux-Medieval León
A short drive later, we are in León. We park beneath a massive faux-medieval palace designed by Gaudí.
The man got around. We are a long way from the Sagrada Família.
We walk around the fantastical building, with its lizard-like gargoyles and heroic knights poised to slay dragons. Gaudí, a Catalan, could not resist evoking Sant Jordi. The palace looks like an overgrown Hansel and Gretel gingerbread house, with absurdly sharp spires and goofy gargoyles that resemble Kermit the Frog gone bad.
Fortunately, the real thing rises nearby. At the end of a pedestrian boulevard lined with outdoor cafés, the Gothic towers of León Cathedral loom above the city.
We follow the spires like a beacon.
It is almost ten when dusk finally settles. The cafés and restaurants are in full swing. Elderly Spanish couples take their evening paseo, dressed to the nines despite the heat. Their animated conversations fill the street. Waiters weave between the tables carrying drinks, seafood and thin slices of jamón serrano.
We reach the cathedral and admire its Gothic arches, carved with saints and virgins all the way to the nave. Behind it stands part of the old Roman wall, with a medieval gateway cut through it. We pass beneath the arch and enter a quieter part of town.
We find a bar, order drinks and watch the world go by from its terrace. We are the only customers. Perhaps the €8 pints of Guinness explain why.
We are part of the problem. I know.
Up into Galicia
We start early the next morning, climbing out of the Meseta and into the green mountains that lead toward Galicia. The air grows cooler as the road rises, even in August.
Before crossing the Galician border, we stop in Ponferrada, the last major town on the León side, to visit its castle of the Knights Templar.
We’ve left the hot plains and are high up among green forested hills that already feel Galician. We park beneath the town hall and emerge into a plaza that resembles an Alpine village with a Spanish twist. A cool, high mountain air blows down from the green peaks above town.
At a café, we order coffee and beer. A newspaper clipping on the wall announces that the King of Spain once ate an empanada in this very establishment. Our beers arrive with free slices of their famous royal empanada.
Good enough for King Felipe, good enough for us.
It is one of those flat, square empanadas associated with Galicia, although we are not there yet. Close, but not quite.
Ponferrada lacks the distinctive Galician melancholy, and the noble rot that hangs over Galician towns like an old, moss-covered cloak. This place is brighter and peppier, almost Disney-like, with Templar crosses marking the cobbled route to the castle.
But the castle is closed. It’s Monday, and everything cultural in Spain closes on Mondays.
Because of reasons.
Back in the car, we drive even higher along pine trees that remind me of the forests of the Sierra Nevada of California. Galicia is impossibly green to the core, with thick, tangled forests and hills that rise up to the sky and deep dark valleys dropping onto narrow rivers that search for the sea until they break out into fjord-like rias where the ocean is always hidden behind one more green headland.
The road is twisty and cuts through sad Galician towns covered in black moss. Noble rot covers the stone walls and the greenery. Behind the houses, the forest is thick and oppressive, dotted by clearings for sheep or horses. There’s not a lot of open space; we’re up in the hills, twisting deeper and deeper into narrow valleys until we reach the imposing Roman walls of Lugo.
It’s five pm, and Lugo is hot and deserted, like most Spanish towns at this time of day; lunch is winding down, and restaurants are closing until 8 pm. It feels like these towns in a western where all the shop doors shut down to wait out a duel in the dusty main street. Only that this town is surrounded by thick Roman walls and crowned with a beautiful cathedral that looms above the heat with sharp shadows. We now know not to expect food after five pm in smaller towns, so we continue towards the coast; our hotel awaits.
A Coruña: The Day Before the Eclipse
It is bright and sunny when we emerge from the narrow, oppressive greenery and see the coast. The water glimmers beneath the August sun, but it is not the open sea yet. It is a ría.
We have just crossed a river pouring into a beautiful, narrow bay. Sandy beaches frame the water as it widens toward the Atlantic, but we stop halfway. Our hotel is in Miño, close enough to A Coruña for a short drive tomorrow, yet far enough away to escape the cruise ships and hordes of American tourists arriving for the eclipse.
Miño is built on steep terraces above the ría, with our hotel near the top. It is a charming little seaside pensión straight out of an Edwardian novel, complete with a stern señora who runs the place with an eye of disapproval.
She recognizes us from the previous summer and proudly shows us the new espresso machine that now dominates the otherwise modest breakfast room.
We dump our luggage in the room and prepare to drive into A Coruña. We need to scout the best locations for photographing the eclipse.
That is when our troubles begin.
A Coruña is buzzing when we leave the motorway and join the port road, lined with cruise ships. The sky is bright and clear. Hordes of middle-aged American tourists are pouring off the ships and into the city.
We follow the coast and reach the car park beside the Tower of Hercules. It is busy, but we find a space and head toward the lighthouse.
I want a photograph with the lighthouse, the beach below and the eclipsed sun above. According to La Voz de Galicia, however, all the paths around the tower will be closed during the eclipse tomorrow.
I take a few photographs of the lowering sun beside the lighthouse. Then we move on to what I call Gallego Henge. Someone has arranged a collection of menhir-like stones beside the rocky shore in what looks like a Galician homage to Stonehenge. They make an excellent foreground for the Roman lighthouse.
According to La Voz de Galicia, some kind of event will be held here during the eclipse. But the newspaper also says the rugged coastline will be off-limits. We have no idea whether we will be allowed to photograph from this spot.
We leave Gallego Henge and follow a paved path back toward the Tower of Hercules. As we get closer, the angle improves. The sun will descend almost directly above the lighthouse.
Then we find the perfect spot. It is just above the lighthouse car park, with an unobstructed view of the tower and the western sky.
An official-looking car is parked nearby with an official-looking pass on its dashboard. A photographer stands beside it. I ask him in Spanish whether we will be allowed to photograph the eclipse from here.
“No.”
Only accredited photographers from La Voz de Galicia will be permitted in the area. He says the entire coastline around the lighthouse will be closed to anyone without a pass. We can, however, set up beside the main road on the public pavement below.
The pavement is not nearly as good, but it might work with a wide enough lens.
The problem with eclipses is that you must choose your position before they begin. Once the show starts, you cannot pack everything up and go searching for a better angle.
The other problem on this coast is fog.
There is none today. The sky is clear, and the sinking sun turns the Atlantic silver.
We stop at the lighthouse ticket office and ask where we can photograph the eclipse.
The woman behind the desk gives us the official line.
“This is not an area from which to watch the eclipse.”
She is parroting City Hall. La Voz de Galicia has made the situation clear: the authorities do not want civilians anywhere near the lighthouse or the rugged coast surrounding it.
Instead, the city has designated a hill near the port entrance as the “official viewing point.”
A hill.
I am not sure what it is with local governments and hills.
We have seen this before. During the eclipse in Chile, the local authorities tried to herd everyone into one designated viewing area, a dirt car park beside a road in the middle of the Atacama Desert.
Sunset is approaching, so we return to the car.
I know exactly what we need.
A beer.
Sunset at the End of the World
The Romans believed these Atlantic headlands marked the end of the known world. After crossing the entire Iberian Peninsula, I can see why. This is where the land finally runs out, and you can look west into nothing but sea and sunset.
We follow the coast to where the north shore turns south. Ahead lies the open Atlantic, dark, choppy and wild. Below us, waves crash against the rocks as seagulls screech in the orange light.
A small car park is crowded with camper vans. Above it, on the cliff, stands a little bar with a beer garden.
We have been here before. I love this place.
The air is cool enough for hoodies, and the coast smells of wild herbs. We could be in Half Moon Bay, California.
Everyone faces west, watching the sinking sun while drinking Estrella Galicia from plastic cups. We order two beers and a plate of nachos, then sit in the garden and contemplate the horizon.
I savor the cool air. Hoodie weather in August is a rare pleasure in Spain.
I know that the day after the eclipse we will turn south, toward the heat of the Algarve and Andalusia. For now, I try to enjoy the cold breeze as darkness slowly envelops the headland.
The last sunset before the eclipse.
Eclipse Day
Eclipse day.
We awaken to a pea-soup morning. Thick as buttermilk.
We eat breakfast on the pensión’s terrace, shivering beneath our hoodies and contemplating the pale fog enveloping Miño.
If we had not been refugees from Silicon Valley, we might have panicked. We were accustomed to Bay Area fog, the kind that smothers everything in the morning and burns off by afternoon. The eclipse was not due until around 8:30, so we had time for the fog to burn off.
It was not time to panic.
Not yet.
Miño clings to a steep slope above the ría. After breakfast, we walk downhill in search of the tiny beach below our hotel. The path drops sharply between moss-covered stone walls. Seagulls squawk somewhere in the fog, but we cannot see them.
At the bottom, we find black sand and thick mats of seaweed beneath a blanket of mist. Pale sunlight filters through the fog, making the green seaweed greener and the black sand darker.
It is low tide. The ría has retreated, exposing the ground that will become the seabed again in a few hours.
By the time we drive into A Coruña, the fog has cleared. But dusk could still bring another bank rolling in from the Atlantic.
We park at the edge of the coastal road, expecting the lighthouse car park to be closed. The long walk with all our equipment is softened by a cool breeze coming off the sea.
The sky is blue. We’re in luck.
Not wanting to run afoul of the Galician police, we abandon the ideal location near Gallego Henge and settle for the lesser spot on the pavement. It is public, noisy, and bordered by traffic. Hordes of curious tourists pass behind us and stare.
Still, with a wide enough lens, I should be able to capture the lighthouse, the cove below and the eclipsed sun descending into frame above them.
My cameras are ready. Now we wait. Time to pop out our packed lunch of baguettes, cheese and hummus from Carrefour as curious tourists stop and look at us eating like we’re part of a human zoo.
At 7:30, about an hour before totality, the fog begins to roll in.
A group of Galician grandmothers gathers behind my tripods. They stare at us while pretending not to stare. They gossip about neighbors and grandchildren, casting occasional glances at the cameras and wondering, no doubt, what the foreigners are doing.
I try to ignore them, but it’s difficult, and I hope against hope that they will scatter in panic once the eclipse starts, as those Indians tricked by Columbus in Hispaniola into feeding him with treats to make the moon disappear.
Right on cue, the moon takes its first bite out of the sun.
But the grandmothers do not scatter. They keep talking inane front parlor conversations as I try to get my cameras in gear.
I am locked and loaded, controlling two cameras remotely through the Canon app on my phone. This allows me to shoot without touching the cameras and introducing unnecessary vibration. At these shutter speeds, it probably does not matter.
The fog thickens. I hear worried comments from people passing behind us.
I’ve seen this before. During the eclipse in Chile, we were also beside the ocean, with a heavy marine layer rolling in from the Pacific. But as long as the fog remains thin, it won’t ruin the experience.
It might even improve it.
Slowly, the sun wanes. The moon carves an ever-narrowing crescent into its yellow face, like a hungry child biting into an egg.
The minutes pass.
The remaining sliver of sunlight announces the approach of totality.
Then all hell breaks loose.
People pour out of the woodwork and rush toward the beach and lighthouse. Traffic slows but never stops along the coastal road. Every carefully laid plan to keep the public away from the rocky shore and the Tower of Hercules comes to nothing.
I do not see a single police officer trying to stop anyone.
It is a free-for-all.
Groups of teenagers pass us carrying cases of Estrella Galicia down to the cove. Others arrive with kayaks, planning to paddle out from the beach and watch totality among the waves.
Then it happens.
Fog and a ring of red fire.
The sun appears to melt, dripping red-hot lava from a crucible in the sky.
Now I am the one who panics like those Indians in Hispaniola that Columbus tricked into believing that he’d stolen the moon.
The fog filters out most of the yellow light and lets the deepest reds burn through. Crimson flares circle around the black disc suspended above the Atlantic.
The crowd erupts.
It sounds as if the entire population of A Coruña is shouting at once.
Darkness sweeps across the land. The sea turns black. The lighthouse becomes a silhouette with a spinning light on top.
Only the black sun remains, surrounded by red fire. A black hole torn into the sky, poised to swallow everything.
Even light.
Red flares pop and drip around the disc of the sun. I’m pressing the remote shutter button on the cannon app. I can hear the rip-rip-rip of the shutter machine-gunning the scene. Now even the old Galician women are silent, dumbstruck.
More fog rolled in, and the ring of fire grew redder until a thin yellow-orange crescent reappeared, and the whole scene began in reverse, the moon making the yellows bigger this time as it reluctantly headed downward to the frothy dark ocean below. The 2026 Spain eclipse was nearing its tail end. Until next year, down in Andalucía.