Ares

The promenade at Ares starts working before breakfast. By eight o’clock, retired sea captains in flat caps are already comparing the colour of the water while clutching small white coffees. Their verdict—“está verde” or “está negra”—travels faster than WhatsApp and decides whether the day belongs to deckchairs or raincoats.

Ares sits almost at sea level on the Ría de Ares, a slim inlet that feels more like a lake than the Atlantic. The town has 5,600 permanent residents, one main traffic light and an aversion to rushing. Everything faces the water: houses, bars, even the 16th-century church whose bell tower doubles as a nautical landmark. When the tide drops, the smell of kelp and diesel drifts through the streets; when it rises, the same streets echo with the clatter of rigging against aluminium masts.

What the Water Gives, the Water Takes Away

The beach of Seselle looks generous at low tide—almost 400 metres of pale sand curling round the inner bay. Come back six hours later and you’ll find a thin ribbon barely wide enough for two towels. Check the tide chart before you pack the bucket and spade; otherwise you’ll spend the afternoon perched on a sea wall like the locals do, legs dangling, debating whether the next beer should be Estrella or the cheaper craft brew from Betanzos.

Summer brings lifeguards, showers and a single ice-cream kiosk that plays Galician folk remixes. There are no sun-lounger concessions, no pedalos, no one selling knock-off sunglasses. Bring shade or buy a €6 umbrella from the Chinese bazaar behind the health centre—the only shop that stays open through siesta.

If calm water bores you, walk ten minutes west where a footpath climbs to the Mirador do Limo. The gradient is gentle enough for trainers, steep enough to make the final panorama feel earned. From the top you can see the whole ría laid out like a ordnance-survey map: ferry crossing to Mugardos, shipyard cranes in Ferrol, and the Atlantic sneaking in through a mouth only two kilometres wide. Sunset here is an unpaid spectacle; no one applauds, they just turn and walk down in silence, suddenly hungry.

A Kitchen that Closes When the Boats Come In

Galicians joke that Ares has more boats than people. That might explain why restaurants open and close like garage doors. The rule is simple: if the cockle dredger or the octopus boat is still unloading, the chef waits. Don’t arrive at two expecting lunch; arrive at two-thirty and you’ll share the room with the crew still smelling of salt and diesel.

Order like you mean it. Media ración of pulpo a feira—octopus hacked with scissors, dressed in olive oil and pimentón—feeds two and arrives on a wooden plate still warm from the kettle. Navajas (razor clams) look Victorian and dangerous; they taste like sweet scallops with a hint of iodine. A half-litre of house Albariño costs less than a London pint and cuts through the oil better than lemonade.

Evenings stay low-key. A couple of terrace bars keep the lights on until one, but the soundtrack is conversation and the clack of dominoes. If you need club beats, A Coruña is 35 minutes away; if you need starlight and the creak of mooring ropes, Ares has surplus stock.

Getting Stuck, or Choosing to Stay

A car makes everything easier. The town lies 45 minutes from A Coruña airport, an hour from Santiago, and precisely nowhere on the motorway network. Buses run roughly every two hours; miss the 18:05 and you’ll be reading the timetable until bedtime. Taxis exist but charge like they’re the only cab in Cornwall.

Most visitors treat Ares as a digestif after the Camino or a long weekend bolt-hole from Britain. Friday flights land in time for grilled sardines; Sunday departures leave just after the market packs up. Stay longer and you’ll learn the minor characters: the baker who refuses to slice bread, the librarian who loans novels in three languages, the retired couple from Coventry who meant to spend one night and are still here twelve years later.

When the Weather Turns

The ría is a wind tunnel. A northerly can whip the water into chocolate mousse and send deckchairs sliding across the road. On those days the promenade empties, bars fill with steaming bowls of caldeirada fish stew, and locals swap horror stories about the 2014 storm that beached thirty yachts. Bring a proper coat even in July; Atlantic drizzle doesn’t care about your holiday dates.

Winter is quieter but not closed. Hotels drop prices by forty percent, restaurants shorten menus, and the Tuesday produce market shrinks to six stalls. What you lose in sunshine you gain in space: the beach becomes a dog-walking runway, and the mirador belongs to kestrels and the odd German hiker in waterproofs.

One Hour or One Week—Pick Your Speed

Short on time? Park behind the health centre (free, shaded), walk the promenade end-to-end, dip toes if the tide allows, then climb the mirador for the postcard view. The circuit takes ninety unhurried minutes and tells you everything about Ares except its secrets.

With a full day, start early and take the summer passenger ferry to Redes and Cabañas. The boats run every thirty minutes, cost €3, and save a 25-minute drive. Have coffee in Redes, walk the forest trail to the stone granaries at A Ponte, then sail back for lunch. Afternoon options: sea-kayak rental from the yacht club (€15 an hour) or a five-kilometre coastal hike to the collapsed fort at Castelo da Palma, where graffiti artists have turned 18th-century walls into a spray-paint gallery.

Stay a week and you’ll run out of checklist items by Wednesday. That’s the point. Fill the rest of the time with what the locals call vagar—the art of doing nothing visible. Sit on the sea wall, watch the colour change from slate to jade to cobalt, and remember that in Ares the tide, not the clock, decides what happens next.