In early July 1996, I found myself in the small fishing town of Corme, on Galicia’s Costa da Morte - the ‘coast of death’, a craggy corner of the Atlantic strewn with shipwrecks. I was happily eating and drinking at a trestle table under a marquee.
I was, celebrating the local goose-necked barnacle, a delicacy scraped from the rocks. Its unprepossessing exterior - are sometimes called ‘devil’s toenails’ - masks tendrils of delicate, sweet, briny flesh.
