Vilanova de Arousa

The tide is halfway out when the first platform of ropes and buoys appears above the waterline. From the promenade it looks like a floating vineyard, each black plastic float marking a rope of mussels that will be harvested before noon. No one stops to point; locals simply step around the crates of shellfish stacked on the quay, proof that Vilanova de Arousa still earns its living from the Ría de Arousa rather than from anyone’s holiday snaps.

A town that faces the water, not the road

Five thousand people live here, yet the place feels busier than the head-count suggests because everything meaningful happens within a hundred metres of the sea wall. The small hotels and restaurants sit right on the sand, not set back behind a coast road, so breakfast arrives with the smell of iodine and diesel from the fishing fleet that moors twenty metres away. It is prettier, and noticeably smarter, than neighbouring Vilagarcía ten minutes up the inlet: houses are freshly painted, the shutters work, and even the estate agents’ windows display actual prices rather than dreamy water-colours.

The medieval core is only two short streets, but they bend sharply enough to hide the twentieth century until you emerge onto a stone balcony that once guarded the inlet. Drop into Bar O Coto on Rúa San Miguel and you will see why British visitors mutter about “best-value tapas in Galicia”: a plate of grilled scallops the size of a saucer costs €3.50, and the house white is poured from an unlabelled jug kept in a fridge that rattles like an old Cross-City train.

Mussels, tides and the art of doing very little

The mussel platforms – bateas – dominate the middle distance. Close-up they are industrial: weather-bitten timber, frayed blue rope, the occasional orange buoy faded to coral. From the promenade they become geometry, black rows that shrink with the ebb until the whole grid lies exposed on the mud. Walk the same strip six hours later and the water laps the top of the handrail; the boats are suddenly level with your shoes and the gulls sit on handrails rather than sand.

This twice-daily vanishing act dictates the rhythm. If you want to swim, check easytide.es first: the two pocket beaches east of the marina disappear entirely for three hours either side of high water. When they exist they are coarse sand mixed with crushed shell – perfectly pleasant, but reef shoes save yelps. Water temperature climbs from 17 °C in late June to a bearable 21 °C in August; outside those six weeks you will share the shallows only with a retired fisherman scrubbing algae off his dinghy.

Boat trips leave from the Mar de Santiago pontoon at 11:00 and 16:00 (€14, 45 minutes). The morning sailing is the steady choice; by four o’clock the thermal wind has woken and the estuary chops like a freshly run bath. Head for the upper deck if you want photographs, but bring a jacket – even in July the breeze carries enough salt to leave white tidemarks on jeans.

When the day ends early

Evenings are low-key. Most kitchens close at 22:30, bars pull the shutters at 23:30, and the only after-dark sound is the clank of mussel boats tying up for the night. August’s Festa do Mexillón livens things up with free concerts and cauldrons of steamed shellfish in the marina car park, yet the crowd remains overwhelmingly Spanish. British visitors are rare enough that the barman in A Tasca still asks “Scotland or England?” before handing over the change in pound coins left by previous customers.

If you need movement, hire a bike from the kiosk beside the tourist office (€12 half-day) and follow the signed track to Cabo de Cruz, four kilometres west. The lane skirts salt marshes where herons stand motionless like greyhounds on leads, then climbs to a headland that gives the full width of the ría. On windy days the Atlantic feels close enough to slap you; carry a layer even if the town below is T-shirt warm.

Getting here, getting out

No railway reaches Vilanova. The nearest station is Vilagarcía de Arousa (ten minutes by taxi, fixed fare €12). Monbus runs direct from Santiago airport in 45 minutes; timetables align with the midday UK arrivals, but the last bus back leaves at 19:10, so don’t linger over pudding unless you fancy a €70 evening cab. A hire car makes sense only if you are staying longer than a weekend: parking is free but spaces vanish when the fishing boats unload at 07:00 and 17:00.

Road links to the Isle of Arousa are swift – the bridge from the edge of town takes three minutes to cross – yet the island feels administratively distant. Its beaches are longer, its pine woods smell of resin rather than diesel, and the restaurants charge an extra euro per plate for the view. Combine both in one day by all means, but remember the tide times: the same current that empties Vilanova’s beaches also strands cockle-pickers on the island’s sandbanks, a spectacle best watched from the bridge with binoculars rather than from ankle-deep in mud.

What to eat without showing off

Galician cuisine can intimidate: goose barnacles that cost €80 a kilo, octopus chopped with scissors on a wooden board, sauces heavy with pimentón. Here the defaults are friendlier. Start with steamed mussels – mild, sweet, served in a lidless pan that doubles as a serving bowl. Add a slice of empanada de zamburiñas (mini-scallop pie) that tastes like fish pie made by someone who actually likes fish. Finish with tarta de Santiago, an almond tart that happens to be dairy-free and therefore safe for the lactose-averse companion who forgot to learn the Spanish for “semi-skimmed”.

Prices stay sensible because the produce travels metres, not miles. A plate of rope-grown mussels sets you back €5–7; a glass of Albariño from the neighbouring valley is €2.50. Monday is the only danger day: half the kitchens close and the remaining menus shrink to toast and tortilla. Plan accordingly, or you will end up sharing a service-station sandwich with lorry drivers on the N-550.

Leave before the magic wears thin

Vilanova de Arousa works best in small doses. Stay two nights and you will still notice the changing light on the bateas; stay a week and you may find yourself timing the supermarket queue to the creak of the swing bridge. Spring and early autumn give the brightest days and the fewest people; winter brings horizontal rain that even the fishermen dodge. Arrive, walk the promenade until your shoes taste of salt, eat what came out of the water that morning, and catch the evening bus while the gulls are still arguing over the leftovers.