Meis

The golf ball hangs in the air longer than it should. Not because of a perfect swing, but because the fairway at Campo de Golf Meis sits 200 metres above sea level, where Atlantic breezes catch anything airborne. Below, rows of Albariño grapes stretch towards the Ría de Arousa, their leaves rustling like theatre programmes in an outdoor auditorium. This is Meis: not quite coast, not quite mountain, but a half-hour drive from both.

Between Sea Level and Sky

British visitors often remark how the landscape feels more like rural Kerry than Spain. They're not wrong. The municipality climbs from sea-level estuaries to 300-metre ridges in barely twelve kilometres. That gradient matters. Morning fog from the ría climbs the valleys and condenses on vines, giving the local wines their trademark acidity. It also means you can breakfast beside fishing boats in Combarro and, by elevenses, be walking through oak and pine where gorse smells like coconut in the sun.

The coastline itself lies 12 km south-west—close enough for salt to season the air, too far to walk with a towel and expectations. What Meis offers instead is a green amphitheatre of smallholdings: tiny stone-walled plots, each with its parra (pergola) trained chest-high so grapes catch the breeze but avoid ground frost. In late August the leaves turn the colour of oxidised Guinness, and pickers appear wearing rubber boots that wouldn't look out of place on a Somerset cider farm.

A Parish Without a Centre

Sat-nav will confidently deposit you at "Meis" yet you'll find only a church, a bar, and a hand-painted sign advertising eggs. The municipality is a scattering of nine hamlets—Lores, Armenteira, San Simón—strung along lanes so narrow that hedgerows scrape both wing mirrors. Allow an extra ten minutes for every Google estimate; the PO-308 follows ridge lines designed for oxen, not SUVs.

Parking is seldom a problem because nothing aggregates into a centre. The weekly market visits Sanxenxo, 15 minutes away. Meis keeps its commerce domestic: one baker's van on Tuesday, a fish lorry on Friday, a mobile library that doubles as gossip exchange. If you need cash, the nearest free ATM is in Sanxenxo; village bars still prefer notes over contactless. Bring insect repellent if you plan to walk—the monastery trail along the Armenteira river can be midge-central after rain.

Wine, but Skip the Theatre

Pazo Quinteiro da Cruz opens its cellars most mornings, but only if you ring first. Tastings happen in a stone barn that smells of wet straw and fermenting apple skins. Four wines, local cheese, water poured from an old squash bottle—€12 a head, children half-price. Compare that to a Rioja bodega tour with headsets and you'll understand why British visitors call it "the anti-theme-park experience". The owner, Carlos, speaks Galician-accented English learned on a vintage tractor in Kent; he'll happily discuss rainfall charts but clams up if you ask for "tannins" or "mouth-feel".

Albariño itself is an easy crowd-pleaser: crisp, apple-skin nose, finishes like a green apple Jolly Rancher. Order it everywhere, by the glass, chilled until the bottle clouds. Locals dilute the last splash with soda water—called a "clericó"—perfect at 13:00 when the sun feels stronger than it should for April.

Walking Off the Wine

The monastery of Santa María de Armenteira sits 4 km below the main ridge, reachable by a path that drops 250 metres through oak and bay laurel. Twelfth-century Cistercians chose the site for acoustics—Gregorian chant carries across the stream without amplification. Today the acoustics amplify wellington boots; Galician school parties arrive by coach and leave sounding like a rugby scrum. Visit before 11:00 when it's just you, the caretaker, and swallows nesting in the clerestory.

The return climb takes forty minutes if you're Cornish-coast fit, an hour if you stop to photograph moss-covered stone crosses. Mid-week you'll meet retired Brits in Rohan trousers who swapped the Costas for a stone house with grape views. They'll warn you about the golf course restaurant closing at 16:00 if no tee-times are booked—sound advice if you want post-round chips.

Where to Eat Without Driving

Meis has no restaurant strip. What it has are village bars that happen to cook. At Casa Paco in Lores, octopus arrives on a wooden platter slick with pimentón and olive oil; ask for the medio ración—roughly a pint of tentacle—and two forks. The tortilla is two inches thick, still runny in the middle, and costs €3.50. They'll sell you a whole Albariño for €9 to take away, corked with a twist of foil. Kitchens close at 22:00 sharp; if you arrive at 21:55 they will feed you, but you'll feel like a student raiding the fridge.

Vegetarians can survive on tortilla and tetilla cheese—mild, semi-soft, like Edam that's been to the gym. Vegans should fill up on almonds: tarta de Santiago is dairy-free and appears even in petrol-station cafés.

Practicalities for Planners

Fly into Vigo or Santiago; hire a car unless you fancy a €70 taxi. Buses exist but stop at 14:00 on Saturdays and don't run Sundays. The golf course offers clubs for €25 a round—call the day before to be sure. Green fees drop to €35 after 15:00, twilight permitting. Bring a light waterproof even in July; Atlantic weather arrives fast and leaves faster.

If you need sand and sea, drive 20 minutes to Area da Cruz, a cove where German naturists and Galician grandmothers share the same stretch without fuss. The water is colder than Cornwall in May—17 °C at best—so British swimmers feel at home. Showers are cold taps in a concrete wall; bring 50 c pieces for the loo.

When to Come, When to Skip

Late April brings apple-blossom and empty fairways; late September offers harvest colour and sea temperature that's finally bearable. August is doable if you like traffic queues outside Sanxenxo and restaurants that run out of hake by 21:00. Winter is green, quiet, and cheap—expect daytime 12 °C, nights just above frost. The golf course stays open unless the greens white-over, which happens two or three mornings a year.

Rain doesn't cancel walks; it merely changes the soundtrack from cicadas to drips. Paths turn slick as Cheddar Gorge mud—proper boots, not trainers. On grey days the landscape shrinks to fifty shades of moss, beautiful in its own bleak way, though you may question why you didn't just go to Tenby.

Leaving Without the Gift-Shop Moment

There is no souvenir stall in Meis. If you want memorabilia, buy a bottle of Albariño from the supermarket in Sanxenxo and ask for a cardboard divider. The wine will taste of green apples and Atlantic fog, and when you open it back in Blighty you'll remember narrow lanes where stone walls warm in the sun and a golf ball hung in the air just long enough to make you look up at the vines.