Puente de Domingo Flórez

Puente de Domingo Flórez smells of chestnut smoke in October. The scent drifts from chimney pots above the main street, mixing with diesel from the morning fish van and the faint tang of silage blown down-valley by the Sil. It is 376 m above sea level, low enough for olives yet high enough for morning mist to cling to the chestnut woods that climb behind the houses. Pilgrims notice none of this when they limp in off the Camino de Invierno; they notice the bakery first, then the bench outside the supermarket where they can finally take the weight off their feet.

The Last Proper Shop Before the Border

Most walkers spend one night, two at the outside. They arrive dusty from the 5.7 km descent out of the russet cliffs of Las Médulas, knees jarring on loose shale, and find a village that functions like a small frontier post. There is no ATM, no chemist, no souvenir T-shirts. Instead there is a full-size supermarket (open 09:00-14:00, 17:00-20:30 except Sunday afternoon), three bars that double as cafés, and a garage that sells unleaded 24 h if you have a Spanish bank card. In other words, everything a long-distance walker actually needs before the lonely 28 km haul to the Galician border.

Hostal La Torre, the only private lodging still operating, sits opposite the medieval bridge that gives the place its name. Rooms are £38-£42 for a double, clean, plainly furnished, with bathrooms that actually have a shower curtain – a detail celebrated on British walking forums. Book ahead; when thirty pilgrims land at once, latecomers end up sharing the municipal albergue dorm, mattresses on the floor, lights-out at 22:00 sharp.

A Bridge, a Church and a River That Still Works

The stone bridge with its single pointed arch is traffic-calmed now; articulated lorries thunder over the new concrete span upstream. Stand on the parapet at dusk and you can watch bats flicker under the arch while the river slides past, brown and purposeful, carrying irrigation water for the vegetable plots folded into each meander. The parish church of Santo Tomás keeps Spanish time: unlocked for morning mass, locked for siesta, reopened 18:30-19:30. Inside, the retablo is a jigsaw of Renaissance panels rescued from a monastery dissolved in 1835; look for the small carving of St James in pilgrim kit tucked into the lower right corner – locals touch his staff for luck before setting off for the coast.

Houses climb the south-facing slope in irregular terraces. Granite gives way to rendered brick, 1950s balconies bolted onto older stone. Laundry flaps above pots of geraniums; a retired miner next door might be polishing his Seat while explaining in fast Leonese how the valley’s coal seams pinch out just west of the village. The accent here is already half Galician; vowels stretch and final ‘s’ sounds vanish, so gracias becomes gracia.

Chestnut Woods, Quarry Tracks and the Smell of Coal Dust

Behind the houses a lattice of old muleteers’ paths climbs through sweet-chestnut and rebollo oak. None are way-marked to British standards; if you want a circular walk, download the GPX from the tourist office in Ponferrada first, or simply follow the green-and-white dots painted by the local hunting club – they usually lead to a col with a view and back down a forestry track. Allow three hours for the 8 km loop to Pico Pizarrín (1,022 m); the gradient is gentle but relentless, and the path can be greasy after rain. In late October chestnut pickers rake the forest floor, filling plastic tubs for the cooperative in neighbouring Fabero; you can buy a kilo for €2 from anyone with a tractor and a tarpaulin.

Coal and chestnut built the village. Slate tips still scar the ridge above the river, and the stone quarried here roofed half the farmsteads in El Bierzo. When the last small mine closed in 1993, half the working population left; the place has been shrinking ever since, though commuters to Ponferrada (35 min drive) are slowly buying up empty houses. Weekday mornings you may still hear the rasp of a circular saw from the carpentry workshop behind the football pitch – one of the few businesses that never shut.

What to Eat When the Pilgrims Have Eaten the Menu

By 21:00 the bars are mopping floors. Hostal La Torre runs the only proper restaurant, offering a three-course menú del día for €12 (£10.50) that changes faster than the guidebooks: pork loin, chips and a tin bowl of local beans one day; trout from the Sil, scales on, the next. Ask for vino de la casa and you’ll get a young Bierzo red – fruity, low tannin, easy drinking even if you normally prefer Rioja. The chestnut tart appears only in autumn; sponge soaked in honey and aguardiente, it tastes like a boozy Yorkshire parkin.

If you are self-catering, the Supermercado Lourdes stocks vacuum-packed botillo – the local stuffed pig’s stomach beloved of winter stews. It looks alarming, cooks like a fatty haggis, and feeds two hungry walkers for €6. Pair it with cabbage and a couple of potatoes the size of cricket balls; the checkout lady will nod approvingly.

Leaving Again

Morning bus to Monforte de Lemos leaves at 07:15, schooldays only. Otherwise it’s the 09:40 ALSA to Ponferrada, connecting with the Leon-Madrid train. Drivers join the A-6 at nearby Bembibre; from Santander ferry it’s two and a half hours, cheaper than the toll-heavy run from Bilbao. In winter the Sil valley traps fog; headlights on, 40 mph maximum, and keep an eye for the chestnut sellers’ vans parked half on the road.

Most people do not come here; they pass through. That is the village’s role, has been since the Middle Ages – a place to cross the river, fill a pack, maybe sleep, then leave. Stay a night, stock up, walk the chestnut ridge at dawn when the mist still hides the slate tips. You will smell wood smoke again, hear the first lorry rumble over the new bridge, and understand why the Camino guides call Puente de Domingo Flórez the last outpost of León. Beyond this point, Galicia begins, the rain starts in earnest, and the place you just left already feels smaller in the rear-view mirror.