Pontedeume

Three-quarters of the way across the medieval bridge, the wind changes. Salt gives way to something greener, heavier—eucalyptus, wet slate, the smell of coming rain. Below, the Eume spreads into the ria like a spilled drink, and for a moment the boundary between river and sea is impossible to call. Pontedeume sits right there, caught between freshwater and salt, between the Atlantic and the oak-dark Fragas that begin at the edge of town.

The village keeps things compact. From the bridge you can clock the whole grid in minutes: stone arcades, narrow lanes rising to a small plaza, the twin Andrade towers poking above the roofs like bored sentries. Eight thousand people live here, though numbers swell when Saturday’s market sets up along the waterfront and farmers from the valley roll in with berzas (enormous cabbages) and plastic punnets of late strawberries. Go on market day if you want noise; skip it if you prefer to hear your own boots on the cobbles.

Stone, Tide and Memory

Start at the bridge itself—fourteenth-century, rebuilt so often that every arch tells a different century’s joke. Walk it slowly; the granite is slick even in dry weather and the parapet hits hip height, just low enough to make parents nervous. At high tide the estuary becomes a mirror, doubling the orange tiles and washing everything in sound: gulls, the clank of a mussel raft, a scooter echoing through the arcade. At low tide the mud appears, dark as coffee grounds, and the smell turns industrial—salt, diesel, something faintly eggy. Both versions are genuine; Pontedeume doesn’t tidy itself up for photographs.

Once across, slip under the soportales that wrap the main drag. These glass-fronted arcades were built so fishermen could mend nets without getting soaked; now they shelter butchers displaying ox sirloin at €18 a kilo and bakeries selling palm-shaped ear-shaped pastries. The ear, by the way, is called a orella and is mostly lard and cinnamon sugar—order one before you remember you’re meant to be counting steps.

The Andrade towers turn up two minutes later, not as a single fortress but as two stubborn stubs embedded in neighbouring streets. The Torre de los Andrade is the taller, hacked about over the years so that its base is medieval, its middle bit Renaissance and its roofline pure twentieth-century patch-up. Inside, a tiny interpretation centre charges €2 and will, if you ask nicely, let you climb to a roof terrace that looks straight down into washing lines and someone’s chicken coop. Further uphill, the Torre da Mota is shorter, fatter and locked most of the year; the best view of it is from the side alley where cats nap on warm granite.

Lunch at Spanish O’Clock

By now it will be 13:45 and every bar will be jammed. The Spanish eat at 14:00 precisely; arrive at 13:55 and you’ll queue, arrive at 15:30 and the kitchen is mopping the floor. Most places offer a menú del día—three courses, bread, drink, dessert or coffee, usually €12-€14. Expect grilled hake with boiled potatoes, or caldo gallego (a white-bean broth thick enough to stand a spoon in). If you’re nervous about octopus, ask for a mediana—a half-ration—so you can test the waters without committing to the full rubbery armful. Vegetarians get tortilla or salad; vegans get sympathy and a plate of pimientos de Padrón.

Waterfront cafés look tempting but check the blackboard price list first. Anything that reads “mariscada” is aimed at Madrileños on a long weekend; a plate of goose barnacles (percebes) can rocket past €50 faster than you can say “blimey”. Safer bet: follow the municipal policemen. Where they lunch, coffee is €1.20 and nobody pays for bread.

Into the Green Gorge

The Fragas do Eume begin six kilometres upstream, yet the map lies. The road narrows to a single lane clawed into the cliff; coaches meet here in a silent game of chicken. In high season a shuttle bus runs from a pay car park at the top, but capacity is 30 souls and the driver smokes calmly until every seat is taken. If you arrive after 11 a.m. you may wait an hour. Walkers can simply start walking—down a concrete track that loses 250 m of altitude in two kilometres. Your knees will remind you about it tomorrow.

Inside, the gorge is blackout dark. Oaks, ash and bay laurel knit overhead; the river glints far below like a dropped coin. The path to Caaveiro monastery is eight kilometres return, flat once you’re down, but muddy after the slightest rain. Wear shoes with tread; the granite slabs are slipperier than a Brexit promise. The tenth-century monastery itself is a cluster of stone huts welded to a spur of rock—visit if you like medieval toilets over sheer drops, otherwise enjoy the echo and turn back.

Winter changes the rules. Galician storms bring trees down like matchsticks; authorities simply close the access road until further notice. Check the Fragas website the morning you plan to go—there’s an English toggle, updated weekly. If it says “Cerrado por inclemencias” save yourself the diesel and stay in the village.

Evening Frequencies

Back in Pontedeume, the promenade fills around six with grandparents and gossip. Children chase skateboards past the stone crucifix that remembers 1890 shipwreck victims while mobile phones play reggaeton from jacket pockets. The chemist shuts at 18:30, the bakery at 19:00; after that only the bars keep the lights on. Try Estrella Galicia on tap—lighter than San Miguel, slightly citrus—and accept the free tapa even if it looks like a fried alien. Standards: croquette, tortilla square, or a single prawn wearing breadcrumbs.

If you’re staying overnight, rooms are cheaper Monday to Thursday. The converted manor at the top of the hill has parking (rare) and charges €65 b&b in March, €95 in August. Budget option: the albergue on the Camino Inglés, €12 for a bunk, but doors close at 22:00 sharp and snoring is a recognised hazard. Whichever you pick, bring earplugs for the seagulls—they start shouting at first light and don’t care about your hangover.

Getting Out Alive

Pontedeume is 40 minutes by car from A Coruña airport, 55 from Santiago. Public transport is patchy: two buses daily from A Coruña, one train that stops on the Madrid run. Miss the 18:43 and you’re either hitchhiking or checking into the manor. Sunday is dead—everything shut apart from one overpriced café by the bridge. Plan accordingly.

Come April or late September and you’ll sidestep the August crush, when every parking space hosts a Madrid-plated SUV and the queue for coffee snakes out the door. Spring brings yellow gorse to the valley walls; autumn smells of wet leaves and woodsmoke. Both seasons dish up four seasons in a day: pack a mac even if BBC Weather swears it’s fine.

Pontedeume won’t change your life. It will, however, give you a lesson in scale: how small a town can be and still support a bookshop, a fishing fleet and a fourteenth-century bridge that still takes the weight of farmer’s vans. Cross it once more before you leave, ideally at that point when the tide is neither high nor low and the water can’t decide which direction to flow. Stand still for thirty seconds. Somewhere between estuary and river, salt and fresh, you’ll feel the village doing exactly the same thing—holding its breath, waiting for the next breeze to tell it where to go.