Silleda

The queue outside the Recinto Ferial starts at seven on a September morning, well before the bacon sandwiches arrive. Farmers in waxed jackets shuffle behind trailers loaded with blonde-wood calf boxes, while a woman from Devon counts out euros for a bag of local chestnuts she insists are “sweeter than anything in Somerset.” Nobody here mentions a beach; the nearest sand is fifty kilometres west, and nobody seems to miss it. Inland Galicia has other addictions: pasture, rainfall, and the rhythm of the agricultural calendar. Silleda, population 5,000, is the week-day headquarters for that calendar.

A Town That Works First, Poses Later

Silleda won’t win a beauty contest against coastal neighbours like Combarro or Baiona. The centre is a short strip of banks, veterinary suppliers and bars that still allow smoking at the pavement tables. Yet the place functions. Tuesday brings a produce market that spills off the central square and blocks the N-525 for an hour; the surrounding parishes supply potatoes the size of cricket balls, chorizos looped like old-fashioned skipping ropes, and queixo de tetilla whose gentle, buttery flavour converts even the most Cheddar-loyal visitor. Prices are scribbled on cardboard and haggling is optional; most stallholders simply round down to the nearest note so they don’t fumble for change in the drizzle.

That drizzle is part of the deal. At 340 m above sea-level the town sits in a bowl of low hills that catch Atlantic weather systems and refuse to let them go. July can feel like a mild British May; January smells of wood-smoke and wet slate. Pack a waterproof, leave the shorts at home, and you’ll be comfortable. Locals treat rain as background noise: they walk straight through it, emerge steaming into the nearest bar, and order coffee that arrives in glass tumblers thick enough to survive a dishwasher Armageddon.

Churches, Crosses and the Glory of Just Looking

Guidebooks list three “monuments” in Silleda; the real list is open-ended, written in granite along every secondary road. Start with the parish church of San Esteban, five minutes from the cafés. It is Romanesque in the way a farm Labrador is a wolf: the genes are visible but centuries of practical living have softened the edges. Step inside during evening mass and you’ll hear Galician spoken at full volume—no hushed heritage whispers here—while someone’s mobile rings with Los del Río’s Macarena. Outside, a cruceiro—stone cross on a column—leans like a drunk sentinel. Nobody can tell you exactly when it was carved; “before the railway,” shrugs the sacristan, which is accurate but unhelpful since the railway never reached Silleda anyway.

Drive, cycle or thumb south-east for eight kilometres on the PO-201 and you reach Santa Baia de Deza. The lane narrows until grass grows down the middle, then the valley opens and the little church appears, the colour of weathered barley. It is locked more often than not, but the exterior is the exhibit: scallop-carved capitals, a cemetery where every grave is tended with plastic flowers, and the sound of the Deza river sliding over slate. Stand still for three minutes and a farmer will appear from somewhere, offer the key, and ask whether English churches are this old. The answer is usually yes, but the conversation that follows is fresher than the architecture.

Fairs, Forklifts and the Semana Verde

The Recinto Ferial covers ten hectares on the northern approach road. For fifty weeks of the year it looks like a deserted airfield. Then Semana Verde de Galicia arrives—always the first weekend after the August bank holiday—and 120,000 people materialise from thin air. Tractors polished to showroom shine rub mudguards with vintage John Deere models; prize dairy cows wear rope halters and expressions of bovine celebrity; food courts serve pulpo a feira (octopus dusted with smoked paprika) at £9 a plate, cheaper than Santiago’s Praza do Obradoiro and twice as generous. If livestock auctions make you yawn, head for the craft marquees where artisans demonstrate basket weaving with chestnut splits sturdy enough to carry a week’s shopping in Waitrose.

Accommodation within a 30-km radius sells out six months ahead. The trick is to book a rural casa over Easter, keep the dates, and simply turn up. Prices hold steady at about £70 a night for a two-bedroom cottage with log store and Wi-Fi that flickers whenever it clouds over. Breakfast is whatever you forage from the Tuesday market; evening meals rotate between the two restaurants that stay open past ten—both serve caldo gallego thick enough to stand a spoon in and pour local Ribeiro wine that tastes of green apples and costs £12 a bottle.

Walking Without the Camino Crowds

Silleda straddles the Vía de la Plata pilgrimage route, but most walkers push on to Santiago forty minutes west. That leaves forty kilometres of way-marked paths blissfully quiet. Pick up the trail at the bridge of Laroque, follow stone markers through pine and eucalyptus, and within an hour you’re alone except for the odd dog whose job description is unclear but whose bark is enthusiastic. The terrain rolls, never soars; gradients resemble the South Downs rather than the Lake District. After rain the red clay clogs boots impressively—carry a stick to scrape soles before you climb back into the hire car.

If waterfalls are your thing, continue twenty minutes by road to the Fervenza do Toxa, Galicia’s highest at thirty metres. The approach is a five-minute woodland boardwalk that any National Trust property would envy. Entrance is free; ice-cream van availability is not guaranteed. Combine it with the Benedictine monastery of Carboeiro, ten minutes further, where moss-coated arches frame nothing but sky since the roof collapsed in the nineteenth century. English Heritage would have gift-shopped it to death; Galicia lets it rot romantically.

Eating, Drinking and the Card Question

Galicians eat early by Spanish standards—lunch at two, dinner at nine—handy if you’re travelling with children or simply miss British mealtimes. Pulpo a feira is obligatory: tentacles snipped into bite-sized coins, sprinkled with rock salt and hot paprika, served on a wooden plate that looks like a cricket bat. If octopus feels a stretch, order empanada de zamburiñas (scallop pie) cut into wedges like a Cornish pasty without the crimp. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and the aforementioned caldo; vegans should learn the phrase “sen queixo, por favor.”

Cards are accepted in the supermarket and the fair ticket office; every bar prefers cash. There is no ATM after Saturday lunchtime—plan accordingly. Tipping is relaxed: round up to the next euro or leave five per cent if you’ve taken more than twenty minutes over coffee.

Getting There, Getting Round

Santiago airport is 45 minutes west on the AP-53 (toll €6.30). Ryanair flies daily from Stansted year-round; returns hover around £70 if you avoid Santiago’s July festival. Car hire desks close at 10 p.m.—late arrivals should book a Santiago hotel and collect keys next morning. Trains from Santiago to Silleda are infrequent (three a day, €5.50, 35 minutes) but useful if you intend to walk one way and ride back. Buses exist on schooldays only; timetables are printed on paper that dissolves in the rain. In short, bring wheels or befriend someone who has.

When to Bail Out

Silleda’s honesty is part of its appeal: it will not flatter you with souvenir shops or sunset viewpoints. If relentless functionality feels too much like home, retreat to the spa town of Cuntis fifteen minutes south, soak in thermal pools (£18 for two hours), and pretend rural life is all cedar steam and fluffy robes. If you stay, remember that silence here is not staged for mindfulness apps; it is simply the sound of people getting on with work. Join in, or at least keep your voice down while they do it.