Carnota

The Beach That Refuses to Stay Still

Walk the tideline at midday and Carnota’s sandbar stretches so wide you could land a small plane. Return at six, after the Atlantic has shouldered in, and the same spot is thigh-deep in surf. This is not a beach that poses politely for photographs; it rearranges itself every twelve hours, swallowing footprints, exposing razor clam shells, turning the river Grande into a saltwater lake and back again. Check the tide chart before you set out—what looks like a gentle stroll to the dunes can become a wade back with your trainers slung round your neck.

At low water the sand measures almost seven kilometres, Galicia’s longest uninterrupted curl of beach. Even in mid-August, when Spanish number plates outnumber local ones three-to-one, you can still walk ten minutes and claim a cove the size of a football pitch. The surf is steady rather than monstrous—body-board heaven rather than big-wave hell—though the red flag still flies on roughly one day in three. British surfers rate the gentle peelers near the river mouth; bring a 3 mm suit if you plan more than a quick duck-and-shriek.

A Granary Longer Than a Swimming Pool

Granite, sun-bleached and slightly askew, the hórreo beside the road looks like a medieval freight container balanced on mushroom-shaped stilts. At 34.5 m it is the longest stone granary in Galicia—longer, locals enjoy telling you, than a London bus plus cab. Built in 1783 to store tithe grain away from rats and rising damp, it now stands empty, its ventilation slits framing views of cabbage plots and eucalyptus. Children use the supporting pillars as an impromptu obstacle course; farmers lean bicycles against them. There is no ticket desk, no audio guide, just the smell of damp stone and the creak of pine boards when the wind nips down from Monte Pindo.

The same lane leads to the parish church of Santa Comba, a low, heavy building whose Romanesque doorway was widened in the eighteenth century to let processions through. Inside, the air is cool enough to make you regret leaving your jumper in the car. A single bulb swings above a baroque altarpiece painted with enough gold leaf to stock a Bond Street jeweller. Sunday mass is at eleven; visitors are welcomed, but cameras are expected to stay switched off.

Villages Scattered Like Confetti

Carnota is not a nucleated village with a square and a fountain; it is a loose federation of hamlets strung along six twisting kilometres. You drive from one to the next past stone walls thick enough to seat two pensioners, past vegetable gardens guarded by scarecrows wearing Real Madrid shirts, past barns where calves blink at passing headlights. The council has painted mileage signs that underestimate every distance—3 km feels like 5 when the road tilts uphill and the Atlantic wind barges in from the left.

Walking tracks follow the old paths between holdings. They are signposted in Galician with distances that assume you are part mountain goat. A gentle-sounding “circuito costero” of 8 km includes 250 m of ascent through gorse and pine plantations where the only soundtrack is your own wheezing and the odd chainsaw. Take water—there are no cafés on the ridge, only electricity pylons and the sudden, startling view of the estuary far below like a sheet of hammered tin.

What Opens, What Closes

July and August bring a pop-up beach bar selling Estrella at €3 a caña and oversized bocadillos that require a hinged jaw. The kitchen shuts at four sharp; turn up at ten past and you will be offered crisps and sympathy. Outside those months half the shutters stay down. The small supermarket on the main road keeps Spanish hours—closed for siesta between two and five—so stock up before you park for the day. Cash is king: the village ATM runs dry on Friday afternoons when weekenders arrive from Santiago, and contactless limits hover at €20.

If you crave a latte at eight in the evening, you are better off in Muros, 20 minutes east. Carnota’s cafés switch off the coffee machine after the menú del día and revert to beer and orujo, the local firewater that tastes of aniseed and regret. Order pulpo a feira and you receive purple tentacles sliced with scissors, dusted with rock salt and hot paprika. Ask for “sin sal extra” unless you enjoy the sensation of having swum the Channel with your mouth open.

When the Weather Loses Its Temper

Spring brings yellow broom and enough daylight to walk after supper; autumn lights the marshes with migrating waders and serves sunsets that last the length of a pint. Both seasons reward the visitor with empty roads and hotel rooms that drop to €55 mid-week. Winter is a different proposition: galleries of Atlantic cloud roll in, the beach turns the colour of wet concrete, and waves slam the dunes hard enough to rattle car windows on the front. Days shrink to nine hours—perfect if you like storm-watching, less so if you had planned long coastal hikes. The N-550 coastal road stays open, but tractors at school-run hour can back traffic up for twenty minutes while a trailer-load of turnips negotiates a bend.

Summer, by contrast, is reliable: 25 °C afternoons, 17 °C water, and sea breezes that stop the mercury from bullying. The downside is parking. The main lagoon-side car park holds 120 cars; on the first weekend of August it swells to 400, with creative double-parking that blocks even humble hatchbacks. Arrive before ten or after six if you want to avoid a slow-motion, Spanish-language argument about reversing etiquette.

Getting There, Getting Out

A Coruña airport is 75 minutes north-west along the AC-550, a road that narrows to single track whenever it feels like it. Car hire is almost compulsory—public buses from Santiago run twice daily, stop at every crucifix and bakery, and deposit you on the main road still 3.5 km from the sand. Taxis must be pre-booked; a ride from the airport costs €90, roughly the same as a week’s economy hatchback rental. Download offline maps before you leave the city: mobile data drops to one flickering bar of GPRS the moment you glimpse the ocean.

Leave time for the drive back. The mountain pass east of Ézaro is famous for its 30-degree gradient and for eagles that circle eye-level with the car roof. It is also famous for Sunday drivers who brake at every bend to photograph the Atlantic disappearing into haze. You will be stuck behind at least one of them; best to surrender, pull into the lay-by, and admit that the view is worth the delay.

Last Light

Evening comes suddenly. One moment children are squealing in the shallows; the next, a purple stripe appears on the horizon and parents start the daily negotiations about “five more minutes”. The sun drops behind Monte Pindo’s jagged silhouette, the wind drops, and the tide begins its quiet return. Sit on the granite steps of the hórreo and you can watch the sandbar shrink in real time, the ocean reclaiming its territory foot by foot. Nobody posts a sign announcing last entry; the beach simply disappears, inviting you to come back tomorrow and see what it has redrawn overnight.