Curtis

At 6 a.m. the bakeries of Curtis are already loading crusty pan de Curtis into vans bound for A Coruña cafés. If you arrive at seven, the loaves left on the shelf are still warm enough to melt the butter you didn’t know you needed. Miss that window and you’ll understand why Spanish weekenders phone their order in the night before.

A Parish Map Rather Than a Village Square

Forget the usual postcard arc of tiled roofs ringing a plaza. Curtis is a federation of tiny parishes stretched across 60 sq km of Betanzos upland. Altitude hovers around 500 m, so the air stays cool even when Santiago swelters, and the grass keeps its colour long after southern Spain has turned straw-yellow. Driving the narrow AC-564 you dip in and out of hamlets named on stone crosses rather than road signs: a scatter of slate houses, a hórreo on stilts, a church, then fields again. Distances look laughable on the map—4 km between Santa María and San Xoán de Cora—but the tarmac twists like damp string, so allow twice the time your sat-nav suggests.

What You’re Really Here to See

Heritage is low-key, almost domestic. The 12th-century Romanesque core of San Xoán de Cora squats beside its cemetery, thick-walled and quiet. Inside, the stone is the colour of old bread; capitals are carved with knots rather than saints. Stand at the door and you look straight over farm tracks to somebody’s vegetable plot—no ticket office, no audio guide, just the smell of damp granite and wood smoke.

Ten minutes east, the parish church of Santa María de Curtis has the same blueprint—atrium, cruceiro, modest belfry—yet the ensemble feels older because the surrounding houses are. Walk behind the apse and you’ll find a tiny bridge over a mill race; follow that for 200 m and a stone dovecote appears, then an abandoned waterwheel smothered in ivy. These aren’t monuments, they’re leftovers from when every stream powered something.

Between parishes the landscape does the talking. Oak and sweet-chestnut woodlets alternate with cow pastures that roll like a rough green duvet. Signposted trails exist, but the OS-style Galician Territorial map on your phone is more use. A 5-km loop from Vilasantar to Fisteus and back passes three cruceiros, two hórreos and a stream ford you’ll have to wade if it rained overnight. Boots with a grippy sole are non-negotiable: the stone is polished to ice by tractor tyres.

Monday is the New Sunday (and Other Timing Errors)

Turn up on a Monday and you’ll discover both recommended restaurants shuttered, the bread museum locked, and the lone cash machine out of order. Weekends are livelier—Saturday brings market vans to the main road—but also busier with Spanish families doing the pueblo circuit. April–May and mid-September to early October give you green fields, mild days and half-empty rural bars. Winter is perfectly doable: snow is rare, but fog can strand you up here when the coast is clear.

Eating Without the Sea View

This is beef-and-chestnut country, not a fishing port, so menus run to caldo gallego (greens-and-chorizo broth), raxo (paprika-spiced pork flash-fried) and ternera gallega that tastes faintly of mountain thyme. At Restaurante Carballeira, the only sit-down option actually inside the municipality, octopus arrives tender rather than rubbery—good introduction for anyone still traumatised by chewy seaside tapas. Order the chestnut tart (tarta de castañas) even if you normally skip pudding: it’s damp, nutty and reassuringly familiar, like a malt loaf that learnt Spanish.

Vegetarians survive on zorza-free empanada of onion and pepper, plus the local Ribeiro white—floral, low in alcohol, easy bridge from Pinot Grigio. If you self-cater, stock up in Betanzos before you drive up: the village mini-mart keeps eccentric hours and the next supermarket is 17 km away.

Getting Here, Staying Over

Fly to Santiago (SCQ) or A Coruña (LCG); both sit within 40 minutes’ drive on the AP-9. Car hire is essential—there’s no station and buses are school-run affairs. A taxi from either airport costs about €70, more than a night’s bed. Hotel Carballeira offers eight spotless rooms for €55 including breakfast; book by phone because the website booking widget rarely works. Alternatives are rural casas rurales scattered through the parishes: stone houses with wood-burners, ideal for autumn walkers but usually two-night minimum.

Fill the tank before you leave the motorway—the Repsol on the N-634 is the last pump for miles and it locks the doors on Sunday afternoon. Same rule applies to cash: the Cajamar ATM inside the bakery building swallows cards with enthusiasm but dispenses money only when the wind direction pleases it.

The Honest Verdict

Curtis will not hand you a tidy highlight reel. Its charm is cumulative: bread at dawn, mist over a stone cross, the thud of chestnuts dropping onto a corrugated-iron roof. If you need museums, souvenir shops or sea views, stay on the coast. If you’re happy to drive slow, walk muddy lanes and eat whatever the owner’s mother cooked yesterday, the municipality quietly repays the effort. Just remember to order your loaf the night before—and set the alarm.