Beariz

The church bell strikes noon, but nobody's rushing home for lunch. In Beariz's main square, two elderly men continue their card game while a tractor rumbles past, its driver raising a hand in greeting without slowing down. This is rural Galicia at its most honest—a place where 700 residents share their territory with ancient chestnut trees, stone granaries on stilts, and forest paths that see more wild boar than humans.

The Reality of a Village Without a Centre

Beariz doesn't do postcard moments. There's no sweeping plaza lined with cafés, no medieval quarter to tick off, no artisan shops selling locally-produced gin. Instead, the municipality spreads itself thin across a patchwork of hamlets connected by narrow roads that twist through oak and chestnut forests. The administrative centre—if you can call it that—clusters around a solid stone church and a handful of houses where neighbours still know which family owns which plot of land going back three generations.

This dispersion means the village experience happens in motion, not in situ. Visitors need wheels and curiosity in equal measure. A car isn't just recommended; it's essential. The alternative is standing in that main square wondering where everyone went, while the real Beariz reveals itself in glimpses through windscreens and along walking tracks that link one hamlet to another.

The local economy runs on agriculture and little else. You'll spot the tell-tale signs: smallholdings carved into hillsides, the occasional cow wandering across the road, and stone hórreos—those elevated granaries peculiar to northwest Spain—still used for storing corn and potatoes rather than posing for photographs. These structures, some dating back centuries, stand in gardens and fields like agricultural sentinels, their stone pillars and cross-beams defying the damp Atlantic climate.

Forests That Change with the Seasons

Come October, Beariz transforms. The chestnut trees that dominate the upper slopes turn the forest into a copper cathedral, their fallen leaves creating a rust-coloured carpet that muffles footsteps and releases that distinctive autumn scent of decay and renewal. This is mushroom season, when locals head into the woods with baskets and generations of knowledge about which fungi won't kill you. Foreign foragers should think twice—the Galician habit of private land ownership extends deep into these forests, and that seemingly abandoned woodland might belong to someone whose grandfather planted those very trees.

Spring offers a different palette. Wildflowers puncture the forest floor, and the streams that cut through valleys run full and fast from mountain snowmelt. Temperatures hover around a pleasant 18°C, perfect for walking without working up a sweat. Summer can surprise—the altitude keeps things cooler than coastal Galicia, but when the region gets one of its heatwaves, the forest becomes a sauna with temperatures pushing past 30°C. Winter brings rain, often lots of it, turning forest paths into mud slides and making those narrow mountain roads an adventure best undertaken by locals who know where the tarmac gives way to gravel without warning.

Walking Without Waymarkers

Beariz doesn't do signposted trails. What it offers instead is a network of old cart tracks and footpaths that connected these communities long before cars arrived. The approach requires a different mindset—think exploratory rather than prescriptive. One decent option starts from the church and follows the road towards A Lagoa, branching off onto a forest track after about fifteen minutes. This leads through mixed woodland to a small stream where, if you're lucky, you might spot evidence of wild boar rooting through the undergrowth.

Another route heads south from the village of Toirás, following an ancient path that links several hamlets before climbing through chestnut forest to a ridge with views across the valley. It's not dramatic scenery—no craggy peaks or vertigo-inducing drops—but rather the gentle, agricultural landscape that has sustained these communities for centuries. Stone walls divide fields, many now abandoned and returning to nature, while others still show evidence of recent cultivation.

The key is flexibility. If a path looks interesting, take it. If you encounter a closed gate, respect it—Galicia's forests might look wild, but they're mostly privately owned. Turn back, find another route. The village isn't going anywhere.

Practicalities for the Prepared

Accommodation options remain limited. There's one rural guesthouse on the outskirts, Casa Rural Os Carballos, charging around €60 per night for a double room. Otherwise, base yourself in nearby O Carballiño, ten minutes' drive away, where several hotels cater to visitors exploring the region. The town also offers the nearest decent restaurants—Beariz itself has nothing in the way of dining, though the local bakery in the main square does decent empanadas if you arrive early enough.

Getting here requires commitment. From Santiago de Compostela, it's 90 minutes by car through increasingly rural landscapes. Public transport exists in theory—a couple of buses daily from Ourense—but they drop you on the main road with a twenty-minute walk into the village. Renting a car transforms the experience from frustrating to feasible.

Weather catches people out. That Atlantic climate means rain can arrive at any time, regardless of season. Proper walking boots with decent grip aren't optional extras—they're necessities, particularly after rain when leaf-covered paths become treacherous. The locals have a sixth sense about which routes become impassable, developed through necessity. Visitors learn through soggy socks and muddy jeans.

The Anti-Destination

Beariz represents a particular kind of Spanish village experience—one that requires patience and rewards curiosity rather than checklist tourism. It's a place where the highlight might be watching an elderly woman feed chickens in her garden, or stumbling across an abandoned watermill slowly being reclaimed by vegetation. The village doesn't perform for visitors; it simply continues being what it has always been.

This authenticity comes with trade-offs. There's no craft beer bar housed in a converted barn, no weekend farmers' market selling overpriced organic vegetables, no yoga retreats or artisanal cheese-making courses. What you get instead is the real Galicia—sometimes scruffy, often quiet, always honest. The chestnut forests don't care whether you find them inspiring or not; they'll still drop their leaves each autumn and sprout anew each spring long after you've returned home.

For travellers seeking validation through Instagram likes, Beariz will disappoint. For those happy to spend a morning wandering forest paths without meeting another soul, watching how rural Spain functions when nobody's watching, it offers something increasingly rare—a place that remains itself despite the modern world's homogenising tendencies. Just remember to bring waterproof shoes and a sense of exploratory patience. The village will handle the rest.