San Amaro

The stone cross at the entrance to San Amaro’s main church still bears the date 1789, but the real clock here is the low rumble of a John Deere heading out at dawn. No one rushes to open the church door; the key-holder arrives only when the neighbour’s dog has finished its circuit of the square. For visitors schooled in click-it itineraries, the pause can feel unnerving. Then the engine note fades, woodsmoke drifts from a chimney, and the village settles into the rhythm that has shaped it for centuries.

San Amaro sits 25 km south-east of Ourense, high enough in the valley of the Arnoia to catch Atlantic weather without the coastal mildness. Altitude hovers around 550 m, so nights stay cool even when Santiago swelters. Oak and sweet-chestnut woods cap the ridges; lower slopes are parcelled into tiny meadow plots, each with its stone hórreo raised on stilts against rats. From the roadside the municipality looks scattered—hamlets of ten houses, a chapel, another hamlet—yet every turning is named and claimed. Parish boundaries matter: they decide whose brass band plays the fiesta and whose grapes go into the communal press.

Walking the Parish Lattice

Forget sign-posted heritage trails. The best map is the yellowing cartográfica the council gives out at the tiny library in O Carballiño, 12 km away. With it you can string together a six-kilometre loop linking three parishes—San Martiño, San Vicente, Santa Mariña—passing two working cruceiros, a disused watermill, and a meadow where wild orchids appear in late April. Gradient is gentle, but the clay surface cakes to ski-boot weight after rain; proper walking shoes are non-negotiable. Locals greet walkers with a polite “Bo camiño” and nothing more. Stray into a farmyard uninvited and you’ll meet the region’s most efficient security system: a geese patrol that remembers every wellington boot it has ever nipped.

Spring brings colour—yellow broom against grey granite—yet autumn may be kinder to photographers. Morning mist pools between hedges of box and hawthorn, and chestnut pickers stack metre-high “parrochas” of husks ready for market. Either season delivers the same quiet soundtrack: a chainsaw in the far distance, someone hammering a new slat onto an hórreo, the soft clink of cowbells. Mobile signal drops out for stretches; consider it an audio upgrade.

What You’ll Actually Eat

San Amaro itself has one bar, A Curuxa, open from 07:00 for farmers’ coffee and again at 20:00 for beer. Tapas run to tortilla, plate of chorizo, perhaps fried Padrón peppers if the delivery van reached O Carballiño that morning. Prices hover round €1.80 a tapa; paying with a €20 note usually empties the till, so carry coins. For anything more elaborate you drive ten minutes to O Carballiño, where Pulpeira O’Pozo ladles octopus onto timber plates at €12 a ración. The town’s Saturday market (08:00-14:00) sells Tetilla cheese wedges for €4, perfect picnic fodder if you’re planning a vineyard day in the Salnés valley 40 minutes west.

British visitors expecting “Galician seafood” are occasionally disappointed: San Amaro is land-locked, and the nearest port, Illa de Arousa, lies 80 km away. What you get instead is cocido stockpots, pork shoulder slow-cooked with turnip tops, and riverside trout when the Arnoia runs high. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and caldo soup, but little imagination is shown beyond that. If you need oat milk, bring it.

Staying the Night (or Not)

Accommodation within the municipality amounts to one casa rural—Casa do Río, three doubles, €70 a night including breakfast bread and homemade jam. Rooms are spotless, Wi-Fi flickers, and the owners live next door; they’ll lend torches for night walks but close the front door at 23:00 sharp. Most travellers base themselves in Ourense (25 min by car) or at the wine-country hotels near Meaño; Quinta de San Amaro is the pick, with terraced Albariño vines and a courtyard bar that mixes gin with home-grown mint. Expect British-level prices: €180 for a double in May, €240 in August. Book early for harvest weekends; half the rooms are snapped up by Madrileños on wine-buying raids.

Getting Here, Getting Round

Fly to Santiago or Vigo; both airports sit just over an hour away on fast dual-carriageway. Hire cars cluster at the terminal—pre-book in July or you’ll be offered a battered Fiat 500 with no air-con. From Santiago take the AP-53 south, peel off at O Carballiño, then follow the OU-212 for 12 km. The final approach is single-track with passing bays; pull in when you see a tractor towing a trailer wider than your rental. Petrol stations shut on Sunday afternoon; fill up Saturday evening or you risk a 40 km detour to the nearest 24-hour pumps.

Public transport? A Monday-to-Friday bus links Ourense to O Carballiño, but it stops at 20:00 and doesn’t reach San Amaro village itself. Taxis from Ourense cost €50—more than a day’s car hire—so sharing lifts is common. Cyclists appreciate the near-empty roads, though gradients can top 10%. Bring spare inner tubes: the only bike shop is back in Ourense, and it closes for siesta 14:00-17:00.

The Upsides of Under-Sell

Crowds never reach San Amaro, even in high summer when the Rías Baixas beaches heave. Entry to every church, cross and meadow is free, and you can park beneath a chestnut tree without paying a euro. Locals treat photographers with indulgence provided gates are left as found. Rain can sweep in without warning; carry a light waterproof and you’ll still be drier than the pilgrims queueing for cathedral entry back in Santiago.

Nightlife is non-existent, and that is precisely the appeal. Last orders in the bar mean exactly that—lights off, metal shutter down. The village noise curfew is enforced by nothing more sinister than tired farmers. If you want flamenco and mojitos you’re in the wrong postcode; if you fancy stars sharp enough to cast shadows, San Amaro delivers.

Come with a full tank, an offline map and modest expectations. Leave with muddy boots, a camera full of granite and greenery, and the realisation that “nothing much” can be Galicia’s finest offering—provided you let the tractor set the pace.