A Guarda

The Minho River gives up three kilometres before the sea. Instead of a grand delta it slips sideways into Portugal, leaving A Guarda stranded on a wedge of Spanish granite that feels like an afterthought. From the harbour wall you can shout across to Caminha; on still evenings the ferry's engine note echoes back like an answer. This is Spain's edge in every sense—geographically, culturally, and, if you arrive on a Sunday in January, gastronomically.

The Hill That Refuses to Be Ignored

Santa Trega dominates the skyline at 341 metres, a loaf-shaped granite outcrop painted with gorse and wind-bent pines. The Celtic hill-fort sprawled across its crown isn't a tidy museum piece—it's a scatter of low walls, reconstructed huts and vertiginous viewpoints that let you track cargo ships entering the river mouth like toy boats. British visitors christen it "the mini-Machu-Picchu of Galicia" on TripAdvisor, then look surprised when they have to share the summit with three coach-loads of Portuguese teenagers. Arrive before 09:00 or after 17:00 and you'll have the Atlantic breeze to yourself; turn up at midday and you'll queue for a selfie.

The road-train (€3 return) only runs Easter to September. Out of season the 2 km switch-back is a calf-burning 45-minute walk from the harbour—wear trainers, not flip-flops, because the granite gravel slides like marbles. Drivers should ignore Google Maps' suggestion to "turn left" into the old-town lanes; the streets taper to single-track and deliver delivery vans straight onto staircases. Instead, head for the blue-zone car park on the esplanade (€1/h) and walk the last five minutes.

A Harbour That Still Works

Below the hill, the fishing port clatters with proper industry. Net-menders sit in circles on the quay, fingers flying through green nylon. The auction hall opens at 16:30 on weekdays; visitors can watch from a glass mezzanine as crates of sardines and velvet crabs travel along conveyor belts, price ticking down in euros per kilo. No one will offer you a tasting tray—this is commerce, not theatre—but the sensory hit is free: brine, diesel, gull-shriek, the slap of octopus tentacles on stainless steel.

Harbour-front restaurants price their menú del día at €12–15 and mean it. A plate of langoustines arrives split and grilled, a bottle of albariño is plonked on the paper tablecloth, and the waiter refuses to let you pay London prices. Razor clams (navajas) look intimidating—long, black, rather phallic—but taste like scallops that have taken up garlic. If you're travelling with children who balk at heads and shells, order gambóns: fat prawns, no antennae, chips on the side.

Beaches for Every Mood

Area Grande curves west for 1.2 km of pale sand backed by low dunes and a campsite. In August the water reaches 20 °C and the sand is towel-to-towel; in February the same Atlantic swells power in at head-height and only wetsuit-clad surfers bother. Lifeguards patrol mid-June to mid-September; outside those dates assume you're on your own.

Smaller O Muíño sits inside the river mouth, reachable by a five-minute footpath that starts between two fish-factories. The reward is calmer water and views back to the hill-fort ramparts glowing orange at sunset. High tide swallows most of the sand, so check the tables painted on the harbour wall before you lug the cool-box.

Crossing the Line

The passenger ferry to Caminha runs every 30 minutes from June to September, less reliably in shoulder seasons, not at all in January gales. The crossing takes ten minutes and costs €1.50—cheaper than a Thames clipper and infinitely more romantic. Portuguese time is identical, but the coffee is suddenly 80 cents instead of €1.20 and the custard tarts come dusted with cinnamon. Be back on the Spanish side before 20:00 or you'll watch the boatman pocket his rope and turn the lights off.

When the Weather Doesn't Cooperate

Galician weather keeps a roulette wheel in its pocket. Morning fog can erase the hill-fort entirely; by lunchtime the same fog has baked off to reveal the Portuguese coast in high definition. If you wake to low cloud, head for the river walk first: a flat 3 km out-and-back on a boardwalk that threads between reeds and salt pans. Egrets pose like paper cut-outs and the occasional kayaker slides past heading for the open sea. By the time you return the summit may have reappeared—if not, console yourself with another plate of octopus. Pulpo a la gallega is tender, not rubbery; ask for un pinchito if you only want a taster portion.

Rain turns the granite paths into an ice-rink. The museum at the base of Santa Trega (€2, closed Mondays) is a sensible refuge: glass cases of Celtic jewellery, a 3-D model showing how the hill-fort looked 2,000 years ago, and toilets that don't require a café purchase. Allow 30 minutes, 45 if you read every label.

Practicalities Without the Bullet Points

A Guarda is 55 minutes south of Vigo on the PO-552, a winding coastal road that passes through tea-green eucalyptus plantations. From Santiago it's 1 h 40 min via the AP-9 toll road (€11.50). Monday morning market blocks the central car parks; arrive before 09:00 or use the harbour esplanade. Sunday is genuinely closed—only the church and one café stay open—so plan to arrive Friday or Saturday if you want the full fish-market theatre.

Accommodation clusters around the harbour rather than the hill. Expect to pay €70–90 for a double room with parking in high season; many places shut completely from November to March. Wi-Fi is reliable, phone signal patchy on the summit. Cash is still king in the market and the smaller bars; the nearest ATM is inside the port building and runs dry on summer weekends.

The Honest Verdict

A Guarda offers three things in tight proximity: a 2,000-year-old hill-fort with Atlantic views, a working fishing harbour that feeds you well, and a Portuguese border you can hop for the price of an espresso. It is not a town for cathedral-spotters or nightclubbers; the old quarter is two streets and a plaza, finished in twenty minutes. Come for the day, climb the hill, eat shellfish while gulls wheel overhead, and decide whether to spend the night or roll on to Santiago. Either way, you'll remember the exact spot where Spain runs out of land and the Atlantic takes over.