Maside

The road climbs steeply from the N-525, leaving behind the eucalyptus-scented valley where British motorhomes pause for sandwiches. Thirty-five kilometres northwest of Ourense, Maside sits at 450 metres, high enough for Atlantic weather systems to collide with Mediterranean warmth. One moment sunshine glints off stone crosses; the next, mist swallows entire hamlets. Pack layers—this is mountain Galicia, not the Costas.

A Parish at Every Bend

Maside isn't a single village but a constellation of eight parishes stitched together by narrow lanes. The council counts 2,800 residents, yet the population density feels lower because houses scatter across ridges and valley floors. Santa María church anchors the administrative centre, though "centre" overstates things: a bar, an ATM that frequently runs dry, and a bakery whose ovens cool by 2 pm. When the church door is locked—most days—ask at the house with the green shutters opposite; the caretaker keeps the key and usually relents if you smile politely in whichever language you possess.

Beyond this modest core, exploration rewards the curious. Follow the OU-0101 towards Augas Santas and you'll pass three stone granaries in as many minutes, their wooden stilts raising corn cobs above rodent height. Detour to Berredo for a Romanesque wayside cross whose carving depicts what locals insist is a medieval bagpipe player, though archaeologists remain unconvinced. The distances look trivial on Google Maps—three kilometres here, five there—but Galician roads specialise in switchbacks. Allow twenty minutes to cover what the sat-nav promises in eight.

Walking works best when expectations stay modest. There are no signed trails, merely farm tracks that double as public rights of way. A sensible loop starts at the picnic site south of the village (spotless loos, river views, no charge) and follows the stream past vegetable plots until the path peters out at a cattle grid. Turn back, or continue uphill on asphalt towards Trasalba where a 16th-century chapel sits locked but photogenic among chestnut trees. The entire circuit takes ninety minutes, longer if you stop to photograph every moss-coated wall—which you will.

Sunday Lunch, Galician-Style

British visitors hunting roast beef will settle instead for capon at O Barazal, the only restaurant that bothers with tourists. The bird arrives bronzed, herb-stuffed and big enough for two, though chips replace the traditional cachelos on request. Order half a portion of pulpo a feira if octopus feels adventurous; ask for it "sin pimentón" if you don't fancy smoky heat. Pudding defaults to tarta de Santiago, an almond cake pleasingly less sweet than its English counterpart. The wine list offers local Ribeiro—light, slightly petillant and easier on Anglo-Saxon palates than the heavy Toro reds sold further east. Arrive before three; the chef switches the fryers off promptly, especially on Sundays when half of Ourense province drives up for lunch.

Vegetarians face slim pickings. One bar serves pimientos de Padrón (Russian-roulette peppers where one in ten bites back), but the menu del día revolves around pork in multiple disguises. Bring emergency oatcakes if that alarms you.

Winter Fog, Summer Heat

Altitude moderates summer temperatures—most nights drop to 14 °C even in August—yet midday sun on exposed limestone can feel fierce. Locals vanish between noon and four; sensible visitors do likewise. Spring brings orchids along the verges and enough daylight for evening walks until nine. Autumn paints the oak woods copper and triggers mushroom foraging; expect parked cars half on, half off the road as collectors plunge into the undergrowth.

Winter tells a different story. At 450 m, Maside catches Atlantic storms that deposit snow when Ourense remains rain-swept. The council grits the main axis, but side roads turn icy. Unless you're experienced at driving on untreated Spanish tarmac—narrower than the UK's single-track lanes—visit between March and November. Fog is the real hazard: it rolls in so thick that the granite cross outside Santo Estevo parish appears like a ship's prow emerging from cloud. Drive accordingly, or simply wait it out with a coffee; the bar opens at seven regardless of weather.

Cash, Cards and Common Courtesy

Plastic rarely works. The village cashpoint belongs to Abanca, a regional bank whose machines sometimes refuse foreign cards even when they display the Visa symbol. Withdraw euros in Ourense or at Santiago airport before you arrive. Bars expect payment in coins; one British traveller recently had to wash dishes after discovering his Monzo card declined and no cash in wallet. (He rated the experience "surprisingly educational".)

Language barriers prove minimal but real. Gallego dominates; Spanish functions as second language. English is effectively non-existent, though bar owners have mastered "pint" and "coffee". Download an offline Galician dictionary—try "bo día" for hello and "grazas" for thanks. Effort earns smiles; assumption that everyone comprehends Castilian Spanish earns polite shrugs.

Practicalities Without the Brochure Speak

Getting here: No railway line serves Maside. From Santiago airport, hire a car and drive 75 minutes south-east on the AP-53, then A-52. Fuel up at the Repsol outside Ourense; the final 35 km cross empty hills where petrol stations close at dusk. Alternatively, Monbus runs twice daily from Santiago bus station to O Carballiño; connect onward by taxi (€25, book in advance).

Sleeping: Options are limited. Casa Rural A Xesteira offers three en-suite rooms in a converted farmhouse 4 km from the village centre (€70 B&B, closed January). Campers can pitch at the municipal area near the river for €6 a night—clean showers, no hot water after ten. Otherwise base yourself in medieval Allariz, twenty minutes away, where boutique hotels cluster inside ancient walls.

Walking gear: Proper soles essential. Granite becomes slick as ice when wet; lightweight walking boots outperform trainers. Pack a waterproof even in July—Atlantic weather fronts don't read calendars.

Timing: Avoid Sunday if you need shops. Monday isn't much better. Tuesday to Saturday delivers fully functioning village life: bread van arrives 9 am, fish van 11 am, both tooting horns like ice-cream sellers of childhood memory.

Maside won't change your life. It offers instead a slow-motion antidote to cathedral-and-tapas tick lists: stone walls older than the United Kingdom, conversations conducted in gestures, and the quiet realisation that rural Spain continues to function perfectly well without Instagram. Turn up, wander, speak politely, leave slightly muddy. That counts as success here.