Bande

A landscape that appears and disappears

At 640 metres above sea level, Bande sits high enough for the air to feel sharp in winter and for spring to arrive three weeks later than on the Galician coast. Drive in from Ourense and the road climbs steadily through eucalyptus and pine, the temperature gauge on the dashboard dropping a degree every ten minutes. Then the valley opens and the Embalse de As Conchas glints below – a man-made lake that swallows a Roman road whenever the engineers in Lisbon decide to close the sluices.

That road, the Via XVIII, once ran from Braga to Astorga. Today it surfaces only when drought or reservoir maintenance coincide with your visit. When the water peels back, the flagstones of the mansion at Aquis Querquennis emerge like a half-remembered dream: barrack blocks, a granary, even the stone channel that fed the latrine. English Heritage would fence it off and charge a tenner; Galicia simply lets you walk the perimeter and wonder how many sandals once queued here for the loo.

What you actually see

The archaeological site is signed from the OU-540, but the brown sign is small and easy to miss at 80 km/h. Turn down the track, cross the cattle grid, and park beside the prefabricated visitor centre. Entry is free; the centre opens 10:00–14:00 and 16:00–18:00, Tuesday to Sunday. Outside those hours the gates are locked and the nearest loo is ten kilometres away – plan accordingly.

Inside, a scale model lights up to show how the camp looked in AD 75. A short corridor displays mortaria, hobnails and a section of lead pipe stamped LEG VII GEMINA – the same legion that built bits of Hadrian’s Wall, so Britons can feel briefly at home. From the balcony you look straight onto the excavations: four rectangular barracks, the commander's house and, beyond them, the reservoir that may or may not be lapping at the stones.

Allow forty minutes for the circuit. When the water is high you can kayak above the ruins; when it is low you can walk the original road, the ruts still visible between the flagstones. Either version is photogenic, but the low-water reveal feels like trespassing on a secret.

Villages scattered like confetti

Bande the municipality stretches 168 square kilometres yet the town itself is a single high street with a chemist, two bars and a cash machine that sometimes works. The real life is in the hamlets: Lourido, Xinzo, A Canda. Each sits on its own ridge, separated by chestnut woods and smallholdings where every household keeps a pig and a opinions on Brexit. Distances look trivial on the map – six kilometres, eight kilometres – but the roads twist like a sailor's knot. Budget twenty minutes per hop.

In Lourido the 12th-century church of Santa Comba has a horseshoe arch that predates the Reconquista. The door is unlocked; the key hangs on a nail inside the porch. Walk in and the air smells of damp stone and candle stubs. There is no ticket desk, no audio guide, just the faint sound of someone's telly through an open cottage window.

Walking without way-markers

Galicia is criss-crossed by ancient paths, but Bande is not on the Camino and the tracks can vanish under bracken. The safest bet is the 7-km loop that starts at the Roman camp and follows the reservoir shore to the village of Os Baños. It is signed sporadically – a yellow splash on a fence post, a cairn on a wall – so download the GPX from the tourist board before you set off. The gradient is gentle, but after rain the clay sticks to boots like wet cement. Proper footwear is non-negotiable; walking poles save knees on the descents.

Birders should bring binoculars. In winter the reservoir holds pochard and great crested grebe; in late August black kites ride the thermals above the dam. There is no hide, so sit on the concrete lip and wait. Locals will assume you are surveying for the water board and leave you in peace.

Food that assumes you skipped breakfast

Galician portions are calibrated for people who have been up mucking out pigs since five. Order a media ración of pulpo at Bar O'Pozo in the town square and the tentacles curl over the edge of a dinner plate sized for a family roast. The octopus is boiled in copper cauldrons, snipped with scissors, then dressed with olive oil, coarse salt and pimentón that stains the potatoes beneath. A quarter litre of local Ribeiro wine – light, almost rosé – costs €2.80 and tastes like alcoholic cranberry.

If octopus feels too maritime for mountain country, try lacón con grelos: pork shoulder simmered with turnip tops and chorizo fat. It is essentially a Galician hotpot, reassuringly short on surprises. Vegetarians face slim pickings; the menú del día (weekday lunch, €11) usually offers tortilla or… tortilla. Pudding is tarta de castaña, a damp chestnut sponge that solves the problem of what to do with all the nuts that fall on your roof each autumn.

When to go and how not to get stranded

Bande lies 105 km inland from Santiago airport – a 90-minute drive on the AP-53 and OU-540. Car hire is essential; public transport means one bus a day from Ourense, departing 14:00 and returning 07:00 next morning. That timetable works only if you enjoy 17-hour picnics.

Spring brings orchids along the reservoir verges; autumn colours the chestnut woods copper and gold. Both seasons coincide with low water levels, so the Roman camp is at its most exposed. July and August are scorching by day – 32 °C is common – but nights drop to 14 °C; pack a fleece even if the midday sun feels Dorset-like. Winter is quiet, occasionally snowy, and several rural hotels simply close from November to March. Phone ahead rather than trust booking engines.

Monday is the weekly lock-down. The archaeological site shuts, most bars roll down their shutters and the bakery sells its last baguette at noon. Plan arrival for Tuesday morning and you'll have the ruins to yourself, plus a choice of tables for lunch.

The honest verdict

Bande will never tick the box marked "buzzing Spanish town". Its charms are slow, scattered and weather-dependent: a stretch of Roman road glimpsed through receding water, a church whose key lives on a nail, a plate of octopus served by a woman who remembers when this was all chestnut forest and everyone walked. Come with wheels, time and a willingness to decode muddy tracks, and the place delivers a very particular satisfaction – the feeling that you have arrived five minutes before the rest of the world noticed anything was here.