Bueu

The fishing boat horns blast at seven in the morning, and that's your alarm clock in Bueu. Not some gentle seabird cry or waves lapping—proper ship horns, because this village on Galicia's Ría de Pontevedra still makes its living from the Atlantic, not from holidaymakers. The sound carries up the steep lanes where houses perch like spectators, all angled towards the water that defines everything here.

Down at the harbour, the day's first auction is already winding up. Men in oil-stained waterproofs wheel plastic crates of mejillón—mussels pulled from the estuary beds that morning—while buyers check their phones and nod towards lots. There's no theatre for visitors, no raised platform or gavel. Just business, conducted in rapid Galician, with the smell of diesel and seaweed hanging thick in the air. This is what a working Spanish fishing village actually looks like, and it's refreshingly unpolished.

The harbour front stretches maybe half a mile, concrete and functional, but walk it at ten when the sun's properly up and you'll see why people stay. Old women sit on benches knitting while keeping one eye on grandchildren chasing pigeons. A café owner hauls metal tables onto the pavement, clattering them into position with the confidence of someone who's done this every day for thirty years. Order a café con leche and you'll get it in a glass, proper Spanish style, with a packet of sugar cubes that have gone slightly soft in the sea air. It costs €1.20. Try finding that in Padstow.

The Beaches That Change Their Personality

Bueu's relationship with the sea shifts depending on which patch of sand you choose. Praia de Portocelo, five minutes' walk from the centre, is the reliable option—sheltered, family-friendly, with a beach bar that does decent chips for the kids when they've had enough of pulpo. But Agrelo around the headland faces straight into the Atlantic, and when the wind picks up here, it proper picks up. Same village, completely different beach day. Locals check the forecast like farmers check rain, and they'll tell you which strand to hit. Listen to them—Galicians have been reading this coast since before the Romans turned up.

The water's colder than Cornwall, there's no getting around that. But it's cleaner, clearer, and on a sunny May morning when the Spanish schools are still in session, you might share Portocelo with six other people. August's a different story—car parks fill by eleven, and you'll hear more Madrid accents than Galician ones—but even then, it's nothing like the towel-to-towel situation over in Sanxenxo. The British families who've discovered Bueu tend to come in June or September, when the sea's warmed up and the village breathes easier.

For proper isolation, keep driving past Beluso until the road turns to gravel. There you'll find coves where the only sound is your own breathing and the occasional fishing boat puttering past. These aren't beaches with facilities—no loos, no ice cream van, sometimes not even phone signal. Bring water, bring shade, and know that the climb back up to the car will remind you why Galicians have such strong legs.

Walking Off the Seafood

Because you will eat seafood, probably twice a day, and you'll want to move afterwards. The coastal path towards Cabo Udra starts gently enough—paved sections past weekend houses with bougainvillea climbing the walls—but soon you're on proper cliff-top trail, with Atlantic views that stretch clear to the Cíes Islands on a good day. The cape itself sits 150 metres above sea level, marked by a simple stone cross and usually occupied by someone having a quiet cigarette while staring at the horizon.

The full circuit takes three hours if you don't stop, but you'll stop. How often do you get to watch gannets dive-bomb into crystal water while standing on cliffs that see maybe twenty walkers a day? Bring proper boots—sections get muddy after rain, and the granite rocks turn slippery when the sea spray hits them. In winter, this walk is properly wild. Summer brings out the mountain bikers, huffing up gradients that would make a Cornish hill seem gentle.

Back in the village, the evening paseo starts around eight. Grandparents walk clockwise around the harbour, teenagers walk anti-clockwise, checking each other out. It's village life played out on a loop, and nobody's checking their watch because dinner doesn't start until ten anyway. That's when the restaurants fire up their outdoor grills, and the smell of sardines drifts through streets now quiet except for the clack of dominoes from bar tables.

Eating Like You've Got a Galician Grandmother

The Mercado de Abastos opens early, and if you're staying self-catering, this is where you shop. Mussels cost €3 a kilo, still dripping seawater. The fishmonger will clean your sardines for free, chatting in Galician that sounds like Portuguese spoken underwater. Don't try to keep up—just nod when he holds up three fingers to confirm quantity. Around the corner, the bakery's selling empanada gallega by weight, flaky pastry stuffed with tuna and peppers that tastes brilliant cold on the beach.

Restaurant meals start with bread and olive oil, always, but skip filling up because the portions mean business. Grilled razor clams arrive sizzling on a steel plate, six to a portion, tasting like the essence of sea without any fishy aftertaste. The choco—cuttlefish—comes chopped into chunks and fried with garlic, proper finger food that stains your hands but rewards the mess. Main courses tend to be simple: whole sea bream roasted with potatoes, or a caldeirada stew that mixes whatever came in on the boats that morning. Nothing fancy, nothing needs to be.

Wine comes from just up the road—the Rías Baixas region that produces Albariño, crisp and peachy and dangerous at €3 a glass. Local beer is Estrella Galicia, served so cold it hurts your teeth, perfect when you've hiked back from Cabo Udra with salt crusting your skin.

When It Doesn't Go Perfectly

August weekends test the village infrastructure. Parking becomes a treasure hunt, and you'll circle the harbour three times before spotting someone leaving. The solution's simple: arrive early, or come in May instead. Rain can sweep in off the Atlantic any afternoon, even in July, turning those cliff walks into proper adventures and sending everyone scurrying into bars that suddenly feel very small when forty dripping hikers pile in.

Language barriers exist—older locals speak Galician first, Spanish second, and English hardly at all. But pointing at fish and holding up fingers works fine, and younger people working in tourism have enough English to sort accommodation or boat trips. The Isla de Ons ferry runs daily in summer, weekends only off-season, and you book online now because they cap visitor numbers. Turn up without a reservation in August and you'll be explaining to disappointed children why they're looking at the island from the harbour instead of exploring it.

Evenings are quiet. There's one nightclub, usually empty by midnight, and most bars shut by one. British visitors expecting Magaluf will be disappointed—this is where Spanish families come to let kids run free, not to party. The entertainment is eating well, walking it off, then sleeping deeply to the sound of fishing boats chugging out for the dawn catch.

That horn will wake you again tomorrow. And somehow, you won't mind.