Muras

The road to Muras climbs steadily from the coastal towns of A Mariña Occidental, where the Atlantic's salt spray gives way to something altogether different. Within twenty minutes, the air changes. Eucalyptus replaces seaweed. The horizon closes in. Here, 500 metres above sea level, Galicia's interior forgets the ocean exists entirely.

The Territory That Refuses to Be Rushed

Muras isn't a village so much as a collection of hamlets scattered across 136 square kilometres of granite and green. The council comprises more than forty parroquias—tiny parishes where houses cluster around a church like sheep around a shepherd. Between them, nothing but winding lanes, oak and chestnut woods, and those omnipresent eucalyptus plantations that turn whole hillsides silver when the wind catches them.

The landscape demands patience. What appears on Google Maps as a five-minute drive often takes fifteen along single-track roads where grass grows down the middle. Locals navigate these routes with practiced ease, raising a hand from the steering wheel in greeting as they pass. Visitors learn to pull over, breathe deeply, and accept that getting lost is part of the process.

San Xoán de Muras serves as the administrative centre, though calling it a centre stretches credibility. The 18th-century church stands beside a cemetery where slate gravestones record generations of families whose surnames—López, Rodríguez, Fernández—appear again and again. If the doors are open, step inside to see the baroque altarpiece. If not, the surrounding lanes offer better rewards anyway: stone granaries raised on stilts, communal washhouses where water still flows, and walls built from irregular granite blocks that have withstood two centuries of Atlantic storms.

Walking Through Someone's Workplace

The best way to understand Muras is on foot, though this requires recalibrating expectations. These aren't curated hiking trails but working paths between villages. You'll share them with tractors, cattle, and villagers heading to check on their plots. The route from San Xoán to A Granxa follows an ancient corredoira—a raised stone walkway shaded by oak and arbutus. After rain, the granite slabs gleam silver, and the scent of wet earth mingles with wild mint crushed underfoot.

Maps prove optimistic about distances. The linear path from Muras to Vilalba appears straightforward until you realise it involves 400 metres of elevation gain across four kilometres. What looks like a gentle stroll becomes a thigh-burning ascent through alternating woodland and pasture. The compensation comes at the top: views across a patchwork of smallholdings where every field has a name known only to its owner.

Winter transforms these paths into muddy torrents. Locals wear zocos—traditional wooden clogs with metal studs—for traction. Visitors in trainers discover why Galicians own multiple pairs of boots. Summer brings its own challenges: the sun hits differently at altitude, and what seemed a gentle walk at sea level becomes exhausting under the high-altitude glare. Spring and autumn offer the best compromise, when the fragas (native forests) glow with new growth or turn copper with falling leaves.

Eating What the Land Provides

Food here reflects the terrain: hearty, seasonal, unpretentious. The weekly market in San Xoán sells vegetables grown in gardens visible from the car park. Padrón peppers arrive in summer, their heat unpredictable—one in ten packs the capsaicin punch of a chilli. Autumn brings chestnuts, roasted over open fires during magostos celebrations where neighbours gather with bottles of ribeiro wine and gossip about harvest yields.

The single restaurant, O Chiringuito de Muras, occupies a converted house on the main road. Its €12 menú del día might feature lacón con grelos (pork shoulder with turnip greens) or caldo gallego thick with potatoes and chorizo. Portions favour those who've spent the morning chopping wood rather than checking Instagram. Vegetarians face limited options—perhaps empanada de zorza (spicy pork pie) without the pork, which translates to onion pie. Book ahead at weekends; locals arrive en masse after Sunday mass.

For self-caterers, the supermarket in San Xoán stocks basics plus an impressive selection of queso tetilla—the breast-shaped cheese that pairs perfectly with local honey. The bakery opens at 7 am, selling pan de maíz (cornbread) still warm from the oven. Buy two loaves; one won't survive the journey back to your accommodation.

When Silence Becomes the Main Attraction

Evenings in Muras belong to the cicadas and the occasional dog announcing a visitor. The lack of light pollution reveals stars in quantities that shock city dwellers. On clear nights, the Milky Way appears close enough to touch. On cloudy ones, the darkness becomes absolute—torch batteries drain quickly here.

This silence attracts a particular kind of visitor. Artists seeking isolation find it in converted pazos (manor houses) rented by the week. Birdwatchers arrive with binoculars to spot pica-pinos (great spotted woodpeckers) in the oak forests. Writers claim the landscape clears mental clutter, though the local library's opening hours (Tuesday and Thursday, 4-6 pm) limit research opportunities.

The downside of this tranquility becomes apparent when something goes wrong. The nearest petrol station sits 15 kilometres away in Vilalba. Medical emergencies require a 30-minute drive to the hospital in Xove. Mobile phone coverage vanishes in valleys; download maps before setting out. The village pharmacy keeps Spanish hours—closed for siesta between 2 pm and 5 pm, and all day Sunday.

The Reality Check

Muras challenges tourism's usual metrics. There's no checklist of sights, no souvenir shops, no sunset viewpoint guaranteed to deliver Instagram likes. What exists instead is a landscape shaped by centuries of small-scale agriculture, where every stone wall tells a story of boundaries negotiated and renegotiated over generations.

Visit in April for the romería of San Xoán, when locals carry the saint's statue through fields blessed the previous year. Come in November for the magosto, where chestnuts roast over fires built from pruned oak branches. Or arrive on an ordinary Tuesday in March, when mist clings to the valleys and the only sound is your boots on wet granite.

Leave the car at the lavadero in A Granxa and walk the track towards the abandoned village of A Cova. Pass the hórreo where someone still stores hay despite the roof missing three slates. Notice how the tojo (gorse) flowers even in December. Realise that Muras offers not escape but perspective—a reminder that places exist where time moves at the speed of growing things, and where being lost is sometimes exactly where you need to be.

The road back to the coast feels shorter. The sea reappears gradually—first as a suggestion in the air, then as a silver line on the horizon. Muras recedes in the rear-view mirror, but its lesson remains: some destinations reveal themselves only to those who abandon the idea of seeing everything, and instead allow themselves to see properly.