Folgoso de la Ribera

The church bell strikes eleven and the only other sound is a tractor reversing down Calle Real. At 774 metres above sea level, Folgoso de la Ribera doesn't do rush hour. This market town of 1,200 souls spreads itself across a shelf above the Boeza valley, its stone houses angled to catch the morning sun that barely reaches the valley floor in winter. While the Camino de Santiago roars through nearby Ponferrada with its albergues and souvenir shops, Folgoso gets on with the business of being Spanish without an audience.

The Morning Routine

Market day transforms the main square into a social club. Vendors from Ponferrada arrive at eight, unfolding trestle tables of socks, kitchenware and plastic toys that nobody really needs. The real action happens at the cheese stall, where Doña María sells ques de Valdeón wrapped in chestnut leaves. She's been setting up here every Tuesday since 1983 and remembers when British travellers meant lost pilgrims, not property hunters. The cheese costs €4.50 for a wedge that will perfume your rucksack for days.

By eleven-thirty the bars along Calle de la Constitución fill with men in flat caps who've finished whatever agricultural work needed doing. They drink cortados and argue about football, oblivious to the medieval archways above their heads. The architecture here isn't pretty – it's practical. Thick stone walls keep houses cool in summer, slate roofs angle steeply for the snow that inevitably arrives each winter. Some facades sport those glassed-in galleries typical of El Bierzo, offering residents a warm spot to watch the world go by even when the temperature drops.

Walking the Territory

Folgoso works best as a base camp rather than a destination. The GR-1 long-distance path passes through town, following old mule tracks that once carried coal from the mountain mines. These mines closed in the 1990s, leaving scars on the hillsides and unemployment that sent half the young people to Madrid or Barcelona. The paths remain though, maintained by whoever feels like doing it that month. Waymarking is sporadic – a yellow splash here, a cairn there – so the tourist office's hand-drawn map becomes essential equipment.

A straightforward circuit heads south along the Boeza river, past abandoned water mills and through chestnut woods where wild boar root for acorns. The climb to Tremor de Arriba takes ninety minutes and rewards walkers with views across to the Sierra de la Cabrera. In April and May these hillsides explode with broom and gorse, turning the landscape into something resembling a Turner painting. October brings mushroom season, when locals guard their favourite collecting spots with the same jealousy a British gardener protects their asparagus bed.

The more ambitious can tackle the 18-kilometre route to Las Médulas, following miners' paths through oak forest to reach those famous Roman gold mines. It's a full-day expedition requiring sandwiches, water and tolerance for paths that deteriorate into rocky streams after rain. The tourist office in Ponferrada organises guided walks some weekends, though they'll only proceed if at least four people sign up.

What Actually Tastes Good

British visitors expecting tapas crawl disappointment. Folgoso does set menus, served at Spanish lunchtime (2pm sharp) for €12-15. Bar Castañar offers three courses including their excellent botillo – a local sausage the size of a rugby ball stuffed with pork ribs and tail meat. It arrives bubbling in a clay dish, accompanied by cachelos (boiled potatoes) and the kind of cabbage that understands its supporting role. Vegetarians get tortilla or… well, tortilla.

The wine list features local Bierzo whites made from the Godello grape, crisp enough to cut through the pork fat. These cost €2.50 a glass, served in proper stemware rather than the tumblers common further south. For pudding, the arroz con leche comes properly caramelised on top, nothing like the stodgy rice pudding served in British school canteens. Coffee arrives as standard Spanish – strong, bitter, no milk offered unless you specifically request it.

Evening dining presents more challenges. Most kitchens close at four, reopening only for those who eat at ten. The one exception is weekends, when Bar Central serves grilled meats until midnight. Their chuleton (T-bone steak) feeds two comfortably, costs €24, and comes from cows that grazed these very hillsides. Book ahead though – word spreads when somewhere actually serves food at British dinner time.

The Practical Reality

Getting here requires commitment. The ALSA bus from Madrid takes four hours to Ponferrada, then it's another forty minutes on the local service that runs twice daily. Hiring a car transforms the experience – Folgoso sits twenty minutes from the A-6 motorway, making day trips to medieval Villafranca del Bierzo entirely feasible. Parking's free everywhere except market day, when the main square becomes a scrum of Seat Ibizas and dusty 4x4s.

Accommodation options remain limited. La Casa Grande del Valle offers four rooms in a converted manor house on the edge of town, its garden overlooking vegetable plots where residents still grow produce for the table. At €71 per night including breakfast, it's decent value though the wi-fi barely reaches the upper floors. The alternative is self-catering in Tedejo hamlet, three kilometres out, where Francisca's restored cottage provides proper isolation. She'll stock the fridge with local supplies if you email ahead – the eggs come from her neighbour's chickens, bread from the bakery van that visits daily at ten.

Weather-wise, May and September deliver the goods. Summer temperatures hit 35°C but without the humidity that makes coastal Spain unbearable. Winter brings snow at least once, pretty for photographs but problematic when the council hasn't gritted since the last election. Spring arrives late at this altitude – don't expect wildflowers before mid-April.

The Honest Assessment

Folgoso de la Ribera won't change your life. It offers no Instagram moments, no boutique hotels, no chef's tasting menus. What it does provide is Spain as lived by actual Spaniards – messy, contradictory, occasionally frustrating, often rewarding. The butcher shuts randomly at 1pm because his granddaughter's in a school play. The bakery runs out of bread by ten because that's when it sells out. The bar owner remembers how you like your coffee on the second visit, then asks after your family for the next twenty years.

Come here to walk the empty paths, to eat food that tastes of something specific, to experience a place that functions perfectly well without tourism. Just don't expect anyone to make a fuss about it.