Castroverde

Twenty-five kilometres north-east of Lugo, the dual carriageway shrinks to a single lane and hedges give way to low dry-stone walls. Castroverde district begins at the next cattle grid. The council area covers 180 km² yet holds fewer than 5,000 residents, which means cows have the statistical upper hand. This is farming country first, visitor destination second, and the difference shows in the silence: engines off, you hear more grass than gossip.

A Parish Map, Not a Postcard

Castroverde village itself is a knot of houses around the fourteenth-century Iglesia de Santa María. The church is locked more often than not; ring the number taped to the side door and someone will wander over with a key, usually still chewing the last bite of lunch. Inside, the nave smells of beeswax rather than incense, and the noticeboard advertises blood-donor sessions and calf-vaccination dates. It is a working building, not a set, and that sets the tone for everything that follows.

There is no chocolate-box centre. Instead, the municipality unravels into 36 parishes, each with a stone church, a bar that opens when the owner feels like it, and a cluster of slate-roofed houses. The only way to see them is to drive—or cycle if your thighs know Galicia already. The LU-530 loops east, the LU-623 swings north; both are quiet enough to stop in the middle when a cruceiro catches your eye. These roadside stone crosses, carved in the 1600s with skulls and hourglasses, once told travellers they were still on Christian soil. Today they double as handy picnic tables.

Reading the Landscape

Stop anywhere for five minutes and the detail creeps in. Maize stalks dry on balconies like beige bunting. Hórreos—stone granaries on mushroom-shaped stilts—stand in pairs beside houses too small to need them. Their stone is soft grey, not the honey-coloured granite of the coast, and the Atlantic weather has punched holes in most roofs. Locals patch them with corrugated iron, creating accidental Modernist skylines.

The district climbs gently from 400 m to 650 m, enough to blunt summer heat but not enough to cool it. July afternoons hit 32 °C and the air feels heavy; by dusk the temperature collapses to 16 °C and cardigans reappear. Frost arrives overnight from October and can linger until April, so spring and early autumn are the comfortable windows. Winter is damp rather than dramatic—snow photographs badly against wet slate and melts before you find your gloves.

Where the Celts Left Only Footprints

Castroverde takes its name from a hillfort three kilometres south-west of the village. A brown sign points up a farm track, then abandons you. At the top, a waist-high circle of stones is all that remains of the Celtic settlement; the view across Terra Chá’s pancake-flat meadows is the real payoff. Interpretation boards were promised in 2019 but never arrived, so download a site plan before you set off or the lumps just look like, well, lumps. If archaeology must come with gift shops, give this one a miss.

Better value is the walk along the old drove road from Castroverde to Gondán. The camino real is sunk three feet into the ground after centuries of hooves and cartwheels; blackberries and wild fennel grow along the edges, and the only traffic is the occasional farmer on a quad bike checking fox snares. The four-kilometre stretch takes an hour each way and ends at a disused stone mill where the tea-coloured River Miño is shallow enough to paddle.

Lunch at the Only Place with a Menu in English

Back in the village, Bar O Centro opens at 13:00 sharp and fills with men in overalls discussing tractor parts. The handwritten English menu is one page, laminated and curling at the corners. Order the lacón con grelos—thick slices of ham hock simmered with turnip tops and chorizo fat, served in a bowl big enough to use as a hat. It is essentially a Spanish take on a British boiled dinner, minus the potatoes. Pulpo a la gallega is available on Thursdays only; the octopus comes from the docks at Celeiro, 90 km away, and the paprika is the sweet, smoky variety that British taste buds read as barbecue flavour. A plate of either, plus a 200 ml bottle of Estrella Galicia, costs €11. Card payments are accepted but the machine is “temperamental”; bring cash to avoid a blushing waitress.

Vegetarians can have tortilla, salad or both. Vegans should fill up in Lugo.

Sunday Silence and Other Practicalities

Castroverde runs on smallholder time. Saturdays see a mobile fruit van in the square and the bakery open until 14:00. On Sundays the petrol station shutters stay down, the cash machine runs out of notes by mid-morning, and even the dogs seem to sleep in. If your hire car drinks diesel, fill up on Friday night or you’ll be begging a farmer for a syphon.

Mobile coverage follows the same calendar. Vodafone and O2 pick up a bar or two near the church; EE and Three give up entirely. Download offline maps before you leave Lugo or you’ll spend the afternoon explaining to a very helpful but non-English-speaking neighbour that you are not, in fact, lost on the Camino.

Accommodation is limited to three casa rurales, all converted farmhouses with wooden beams and draughty stone floors. Casa Rural A Cortiña, five kilometres west of the village, has underfloor heating and an English-speaking owner called Andrew who swapped Manchester for Galicia in 2003. He serves sourdough toast and Lugo honey for breakfast and will lend wellies if the fields are soggy. High-season weekends start at €90 for a double; mid-week bargains drop to €55 if you ask nicely and stay three nights. There is no hotel, and the nearest fallback is the Balneario de Lugo, a 25-minute drive back towards the city.

When the Valley Parties

Fiestas are parish-based and rarely advertised beyond the local WhatsApp group. The big date is 15 August, Asunción, when emigrants return from Madrid or Basel and the population briefly doubles. A marquee goes up in the rec field, a €10 ticket buys grilled beef and plastic cups of Ribeiro wine, and a covers band plays “Sweet Caroline” in a Galician accent. Visitors are welcome but not fussed over; turn up, pay at the gate and try not to laugh when the singer replaces “touching hands” with “tatching hans”.

Smaller romerías happen in May and October, tied to the livestock calendar rather than the tourist season. If you see hand-painted arrows to a chapel at 08:00 on a Sunday, follow them: you’ll end up at a mass followed by coffee-and-aguardiente served from the boots of parked cars.

The Honest Verdict

Castroverde will never tick the “must-see” box for first-time Spain visitors. It has no cathedral, beach or vineyard tour, and the souvenir choice extends to a fridge magnet shaped like a cow. What it does offer is a crash course in how rural Galicia actually functions: the sound of hooves on tarmac at dawn, the way smoke from oak fires seeps through chimney pots, the fact that every stone wall leans at the same angle because generations rebuilt them the same way.

Come if you have a car, a sense of mild curiosity and no itinerary longer than a napkin. Treat the place like you would a National Trust estate in Shropshire: arrive, park, walk until boots are dusty, then sit in the only café and eavesdrop on lives that carry on regardless. Leave before you start recognising the dogs by name; the villagers deserve their quiet back.