Caldas de Reis

Steam rises from the riverbank at dawn, drifting above the Umia like a kettle left boiling. Beneath the Roman bridge, early-bird pilgrims plunge blistered feet into the free thermal pool and yelp when 38 °C water meets raw heel. By eight o’clock the square smells of coffee and menthol ointment; rucksacks line the bar walls and someone is always asking “¿Cuánto falta para Santiago?” Caldas de Reis never lets walkers forget they are halfway along the Portuguese Camino, yet the village feels less like a service station and more like someone’s backyard that happens to have hot taps.

Water, Bridges and Becket

The Romans spotted the springs first, but the place really took off in the eighteenth century when doctors began prescribing “las aguas calientes de Caldas” for gout and melancholy. Two fountains still gush straight out of granite slabs beside the river: one for soaking feet, the other strictly for filling bottles. Locals insist the mineral content fixes everything from arthritis to heartbreak; sceptics simply enjoy free heat. Try it, but test with a finger first—scalds are common and the Guardia Civil keep a burn-gel pack in their patrol car for a reason.

Cross the bridge and you step into a grid of lanes barely two cars wide. The church of Santo Tomás Becket, all curling stone and gilt altarpieces, surprises Brits who thought Canterbury had the monopoly. Inside, a small plaque records that the martyr’s relics were venerated here long before Chaucer’s pilgrims set out for Kent. Around the corner, Santa María de Caldas shows its older bones: Romanesque doorway wedged between later Baroque additions, rather like a Tudor house with a Victorian conservatory tacked on. Neither building will swallow more than twenty minutes, but together they explain why the village has mattered since medieval times.

Upstream, the Parque de A Fraga turns a lazy loop along the Umia. Boardwalks duck under eucalyptus and oak, passing old mill races now home to terrapins. Kingfishers flash across the pools; in October the salmon leap, watched by retirees who bring folding chairs and debate water levels as if discussing the FTSE. The path is flat, paved for the first kilometre and muddy thereafter—stick to trainers rather than sandals if rain is forecast.

From Spa Towels to Hilltops

Caldas is not a theme-park spa town. If you want fluffy robes and ambient music, book a two-hour slot (€18) at the private Balneario Acuña on the edge of the village. The 1920s building houses thermal pools, a jets-and-bubbles circuit and a therapist who will pummel Camino calves for an extra €35. Day visitors are welcome, but ring ahead in July—Santiago alumni fresh from Tui fill the diary by late morning.

Prefer your therapy green and free? Follow the signposted Ruta dos Muíños north out of town. In five kilometres you pass eight stone watermills, most roofless but intact enough to picture farmers winching sacks of rye a century ago. The trail climbs gently through pine and gorse; blackberries ripen in September and locals arrive with Tupperware boxes to strip the bushes. Allow ninety minutes return, plus whatever you lose photographing moss-covered wheels.

For something steeper, the Monte Xiabre looms south-west. A farm track leaves from behind the cemetery, switch-backing 400 m to a grassy summit with 360-degree views: the Ría de Arousa glinting on one side, the cathedral spire of Santiago just visible on clear days. The climb takes an hour, descent forty minutes; carry water because there is no bar at the top, only cows and a mobile-phone mast disguised as a pine tree.

What to Eat between Soaks

Galician cuisine appears in miniature here—no tasting menus, just short, reliable cards. Bars open at seven for tortilla and coffee; by one o’clock every table holds an empanada, the regional savoury pie. Tuna with onion is the safest bet for cautious palates; octopus (pulpo a feira) comes dusted with paprika on a wooden platter and tastes better than it looks. Vegetarians survive on caldo gallego, a broth of potatoes, greens and white beans that arrives in soup bowls big enough to swim in. Pudding is almost always tarta de Santiago, a moist almond cake that happens to be gluten-free—perfect ammunition for the remaining 40 km to Santiago.

Wine lists are short and local: Albariño from the Salnés valley, crisp enough to make you forget the midday humidity. A glass rarely tops €3; house vino tinto can be less than €2 but varies from drinkable to paint-stripper. If you need English explanations, head to O Cruce on Rúa Real—owner Manuel spent a season in Manchester and enjoys practising scouse vowels.

Beds, Bells and Blisters

Accommodation clusters around the Camino. The municipal albergue (€8) opens at 1 p.m. and locks at 10; bring earplugs because snoring reaches stadium volume. Private hostals charge €35–45 for a double and will hold packs while you sight-see. Whatever you choose, reserve for Easter week and the last fortnight of July—Festa da Auga turns the centre into a foam party and beds vanish faster than free tapas.

Shops shut early and completely. Both supermarkets on Rúa Real close at 9 p.m. sharp and all day Sunday; the Chinese bazaar opposite the bridge sells everything from combs to kettles but stocks no fresh food. Cash machines live outside the Caixa bank; many bars still grimace at chip-and-pin for rounds under a tenner, so keep notes.

Rain can arrive horizontally in April and October. The river paths drain poorly—one shower turns packed earth into brown ice. Dry socks sealed in a plastic bag count as essential survival gear; the local pharmacy does a brisk trade in Compeed after every downpour.

When to Come, When to Leave

Spring brings wild garlic along the Umia and daytime temperatures hovering round 18 °C—ideal for walking without the Camino crowds of May. Autumn colours light up the valley in late October and the grape harvest fills the air with sweet fermentation smells. Summer is warm (26 °C average) but manageable under the park trees; August afternoons, however, turn the thermal footbath into a cauldron and the village smells of eucalyptus and deep-fry oil. Winter is quiet, misty and cheap—perfect if you like hotels without guests, but be aware that the albergue shuts and several cafés board up from November to February.

Stay a night if you are walking the Portuguese way; stay two if your legs demand mercy. Caldas de Reis offers no blockbuster sights, yet it rewards those content with slow rivers, hot water and the low hum of a community that has been greeting strangers since the Middle Ages. Dip your feet, order another coffee, watch the steam rise and decide whether you really need to rush on to Santiago.