A Laracha

The church bell in Torás strikes eleven and nobody looks up. Farmers carry on unloading cabbage seedlings from battered vans, two women chat beside the bakery door, and the only tourist in sight is a British cyclist studying the tyre wall of his hybrid with the expression of a man who's realised Atlantic drizzle isn't like Manchester rain. This is A Laracha on an ordinary Tuesday: not hidden, not undiscovered, simply going about its business while the Costa da Morte flashes its beaches on postcards half an hour away.

Between Field and Fog

A Laracha sits on a granite ridge 200 m above the Ría de Corme, close enough to smell seaweed when the wind swings west, far enough to escape the summer caravan crawl. The council boundary almost touches the sea at Caión, a small working port with a pebble strand and a fish-auction warehouse that smells more strongly of brine than any harbour on the English Riviera. Yet most of the 5,000 residents live inland, strung along seven rural parishes whose stone houses face the road, backs turned to narrow fields that tilt toward oak and eucalyptus woods. Drive in from A Coruña airport (30 min on the AG-55) and you see what they mean by campiña atlántica: tidy smallholdings, stone walls the colour of wet slate, and sudden glimpses of the estuary flashing silver between hills.

The altitude takes newcomers by surprise. Even in July you may wake to mist drifting across maize plots like dry ice, and night temperatures drop below 14 °C – perfect for sleeping but brutal for shorts-and-T-shirt packing. Spring and early autumn are kinder: lusher grass than Britain, hawthorn in bloom weeks earlier, and footpaths firm underfoot. Come after heavy rain and you will understand why Galicians own so many wellies; the same red clay that grows excellent cabbages clings to footwear like liquid brick.

Walking Without Waymarks

There is no single "route", no pay-at-the-visitor-centre circuit. Instead a lattice of farm tracks and old caminos reais links the parishes: Cabovilaño, Coiro, Lemaio, Vilaño. Start at the lavadoiro (communal wash-house) in Coiro, follow the stone channelled stream uphill, and within twenty minutes you are among oaks where cabrera ferns grow shoulder-high. A mile further the path drops into a valley of abandoned water-mills; if the map on your phone still shows a blank, that is normal – signposts appear only when a local farmer nails up an off-cut of timber and paints "Pozo do Demo" in green.

Serious walkers can stitch together a 14 km loop south to the Xallas River gorge, but mileage is misleading. Every crumbling hórreo (granary on stilts) invites inspection, every wayside cross asks for a photo, and conversations start easily – especially if you attempt the Galician greeting "Boas". English is scarce; download Spanish or Galician offline and expect a 50-50 mix of both languages. A polite "Non falo ben o galego" usually produces smiles and slower speech, which feels like victory.

What Appears on the Plate

A Laracha does not shout about its food; it just serves it. In the taberna attached to the petrol station on the AC-552 – yes, that one – you can eat empanada de zamburiñas (scallop pie) warm from the glass counter for €2.20. The pastry is short, the filling tastes of shellfish rather than white sauce, and the owner will insist you need two slices because "son pequenas". Across the road, Casa Pardo opens only at weekends and fills with extended families who treat lacón con grelos (pork shoulder with turnip tops) as birthright. Portions are built for workers: order one ración to share unless you have ploughed a field that morning.

Seafood arrives from Caión each afternoon. Mariscadoras (percebes collectors) sit by the harbour cleaning goose barnacles with short knives; the creatures look like dinosaur toes and cost €38 a kilo in season, but three boiled percebes and a glass of local Ribeiro wine in the bar O Leme will make you forgive the price. For pudding, tarta de Santiago is everywhere; the almond flavour is subtler than British bakewell and the dusting of icing sugar always includes the cross of St James stencilled on top. Vegetarians face the usual north-west Spain struggle: ask for caldo gallego without chorizo and you will get cabbage broth, bread, and sincere sympathy.

When the Village Throws a Party

Fiestas here are for neighbours first, visitors second. Around 25 July the Fiestas de Santiago turn the main square into a mix of brass band, bouncy castle and tunas (student minstrels) singing at full volume until the council noise curfew at 03:00. There is no entry fee, no programme in English, just an expectation that you will dance when the bagpipes start. Each parish then repeats the formula for its patron saint: San Roque in Caión means a midnight fireworks display reflected in the harbour, while San Pedro in Lemaio hosts a sardinada where €8 buys five grilled sardines, bread and all the wine you can politely pour. Arrive early – Galicia eats lunch from 14:00 and dinner rarely starts before 21:30, but the sardinada begins when the coals glow and finishes when the fish runs out, sometimes at 18:00.

The Practical Bits No One Mentions

You will need wheels. A twice-daily bus links A Laracha with A Coruña, but the timetable is printed only in Galician and the last return journey leaves at 19:10, too early for summer sunsets. Car hire desks at A Coruña airport stay open until the last Iberia flight; if you land on the late Ryanair from Stansted, pre-book and leave a note with your flight number – they will wait. Roads are quiet, signposting clear, and Google Maps works, though it occasionally invents farm tracks impassable after rain. Petrol costs roughly what you pay in southern England; coffee is half London prices and usually better.

Accommodation scatters across the parishes rather than clustering in a centre. Casa Rural O'Pozo in Vilar has two doubles overlooking an orchard where chickens wander; expect €70 for the room and another €8 if you want the owner to fill the wood-burning hot-tub. The nearest hotel with a pool is the Balneario de Arteixo, ten minutes west, popular with Spanish families who book half-board in August and commandeer the sun-loungers by 09:30. In low season you can turn up and bargain; in August you needed to reserve in March.

Rain gear is non-negotiable. Atlantic clouds arrive fast: one moment blue sky, next moment horizontal drizzle you cannot quite see but quickly feel. A lightweight shell lives in daypacks here the way sunglasses do in Andalucía. On the plus side, when the front passes the air smells of crushed eucalyptus and the hills shine an almost implausible green – the colour that makes returning Britons wonder why they put up with parched suburban lawns.

Leaving Without a Checklist

Guidebooks like tick-lists: cathedral, castle, selfie spot, done. A Laracha offers none of those and is quietly proud of the fact. What it does give is the chance to watch real rural life adjust to the 21st century: wind turbines on the ridge above stone pallozas, a farmer WhatsApp-ing wholesale prices while leading cows across the road, teenagers posting TikToks beside a 12th-century cross. Spend a couple of days wandering the lanes, accept the invitation to inspect someone’s vegetable plot, and you may discover you have covered 20 km, eaten three times, spent less than forty euros and still not taken a single postcard picture. That is the point. The coast is ten minutes away when you want it; for the rest, A Laracha carries on being itself, which turns out to be more than enough.