Ponteceso

The tide was out at Ponteceso’s tiny harbour, and a single flat-bottomed boat sat on the mud like a discarded clog. No postcards, no ice-cream kiosk, just the smell of diesel and seaweed and a man in orange overalls hosing percebes (goose barnacles) into plastic crates. That’s the first thing that strikes British visitors: the coast here is still a workplace, not a backdrop.

Ponteceso spreads itself along the lower reaches of the Río Anllóns, eight kilometres before the water gives up and slides into the Ría de Corme e Laxe. Administratively it belongs to A Coruña province; psychologically it belongs to the river. The main road, the AC-430, follows every bend of the valley, so a twenty-minute drive on the map takes forty in practice. Accept that and everything else makes sense.

A Valley that Breathes

Start at the medieval bridge in the village centre. The stone is greasy with moss and the parapet only reaches knee-height—health-and-safety officers would have nightmares. Walk downstream on the signed path and within five minutes you’re between reed beds that rattle like old radio static. Herons lift off with the reluctance of commuters; cormorants dive and disappear for improbable lengths of time. The path is flat, occasionally board-walked, and ends at a bird-hide that smells of wet wood and someone else’s sandwiches. You don’t need binoculars, but if you’ve brought them you’ll spot kingfishers the colour of British Rail livery.

Turn round, head upstream instead. The river narrows, alders lean in, and the occasional granite horreo (raised granary) appears among smallholdings planted with potatoes and kiwi vines—this corner of Galicia is mild enough for both. After forty minutes you reach a weir and the trail peters out into tractor ruts. That’s your cue for coffee back in the village.

Cafetería O Anllóns opens at 07:30 so the fishermen can top up on cortados before hauling boats. A large coffee costs €1.40 if you stand at the bar, €1.80 on the terrace. They’ll make you toast with tomato and olive oil if you ask; don’t expect marmalade. Sunday breakfast is busy—locals read the La Voz de Galicia from cover to cover while their dogs negotiate under tables—so arrive before ten or be prepared to hover.

When the Land Runs Out

Drive eight kilometres north-west (signed Corme) and the valley suddenly empties into the Atlantic. The road drops, hedges disappear, and you’re on a wind-lashed headland looking towards the lighthouse at Cabo Corme. Below, the harbour of Corme-Ponteceso shelters a dozen boats; on the slipway women in rubber boots sort razor clams into mesh sacks. This is where the river fishermen become coastal sailors, and the menu changes accordingly.

Lunch options are few but honest. Taberna da Bouza, a blue-shuttered house on the road into Corme, does a four-course menú del día for €14 mid-week. Expect caldo gallego (greens and beans), then grilled sardines that arrive head-on and require deft work with knife and fork. If you’re squeamish about eyes on plates, order the tortilla; it’s the thickness of a paperback and the potatoes taste of actual earth. Wine is included, poured from a cask into short glass tumblers—no-one here has heard of a 175 ml measure.

Afternoons are for walking the lighthouse path. The route hugs cliff tops for 7 km to Cabo Corme, passing blow-holes and stone walls built by British engineers in 1853. On Foot Holidays supplies turn-by-turn notes for guests who book through them; independent walkers can download the track from Wikiloc. Parts of the trail are rocky and exposed—think Pembrokeshire without the tea shops—so boots are sensible. Allow three hours return, longer if the wind is punching in from the west. You’ll meet perhaps four other people and a pod of bottlenose dolphins that patrol the tideline most evenings.

Stone, Silence, Sunday Problems

Head inland again and Ponteceso fragments into parishes whose names—San Xoán de Anllóns, Santo André de Xestoso—sound like incantations. Narrow lanes twist between hamlets of two-storey granite houses; satellite dishes bloom on walls like metallic lichen. The best way to explore is to abandon the car, pick a lane and walk until you run out of tarmac. Every kilometre or so you’ll pass a stone cross, usually ivy-clad, marking a medieval right-of-way. Farmers greet you with “boa tarde” even when it clearly isn’t.

The downside of all this authenticity is that nothing stays open on a whim. If you arrive on a Sunday without a restaurant reservation you may end up eating crisps in your room. The lone supermarket closes at 14:00; petrol stations are card-only after dark. Plan ahead, or embrace the Galician diet of beer and almonds pilfered from the minibar.

Weather is the other variable. Summer brings sea fog that can smother the coast for days—photographers call it “haar with sardines”. Spring and early autumn are kinder: temperatures hover around 20 °C and the gorse smells of coconut sunscreen. Winter is mild by British standards (rarely below 5 °C) but Atlantic lows rattle in every week. If you come between December and February bring waterproof trousers; Galician rain doesn’t fall, it approaches horizontally.

Beds for the Night

Accommodation is scattered, not stacked. Casa Luz, a converted farmhouse three kilometres south of the village, has three guest rooms run by Yolanda and her mother. Breakfast includes eggs from their hens and honey from hives tucked behind the barn. Expect to pay €80 for a double, less if you stay three nights. They’ll collect walkers from the lighthouse path if your legs give up—message via WhatsApp, signal permitting.

Closer to the harbour, O Semáforo is a nineteenth-century signal station turned into six apartments. Walls are a metre thick; wi-fi struggles to penetrate them. Sunset views stretch clear to the Sisargas Islands, uninhabited except for gulls and the occasional monk seal. Rates start at €110 for a studio, minimum two nights in high season. Book early for May—Spanish schools break for Easter and every apartment is taken by families from Madrid who pack wetsuits and bodyboards.

If you’re self-catering, the Saturday market in Ponteceso square sells potatoes brushed clean, knobbly peppers and cheese wrapped in cabbage leaves. Ask for “queso do país”; it’s milder than the mature Manchego sold in British supermarkets and melts properly on toast.

The Take-Away

Ponteceso offers no cathedrals, no Michelin stars, no Instagram pier. What it does offer is a coastline that still earns its living, a river valley that changes colour every hour, and enough walking to justify a second helping of tortilla. Come prepared for closed doors on Sunday, for roads that double back on themselves, for the smell of diesel mixed with seaweed. Accept the rhythm—river, tide, weather—and the place will accept you back.