Ordes

The bus drops you beside a tyre fitter's yard. No mediaeval archway, no tourist office, just the smell of diesel and someone hosing down the pavement outside Bar Central. This is Ordes, 25 minutes from Santiago's cathedral and roughly the same from A Coruña's glass shopping galleries, yet stubbornly uninterested in being "discovered". The village of 5,000 gets on with the business of being Galicia's logistical heartland—trucks, warehouses, Saturday-morning market stalls selling socks and churros—while weekenders hurry past on their way to somewhere prettier.

Look closer, though, and the place starts to colour itself in. A three-storey gable end erupts into a kingfisher-blue mural of women carrying laundry baskets; round the corner, a cartoon cow wears oversized trainers. The street art isn't advertised—there's no tourist office to advertise anything—but the dozen-odd pieces give the functional high street a pulse that most inland towns this size lost decades ago. Download the free map (search "Trevor Huxham Ordes" before you leave home) and you'll have a 45-minute circuit that finishes conveniently outside Heladería Dúas, where the owner still scoops ice cream like she's doing you a favour.

Between Tambre and tarmac

Ordes sits at 300 m above sea level in the Tambre valley, a green corridor stitched together by eucalyptus plantations, cow pastures and the occasional stone granary on stilts. The terrain rolls rather than soars; you can link hamlets such as Ardemil or Meixide on foot without climbing more than 100 m, but the cumulative effect of short rises adds up. Expect 12–15 km if you want a proper loop, and carry water—village fountains look picturesque but half are capped for hygiene reasons.

The riverbanks are the best bit. A 4 km signed walk starts behind the football ground, follows an irrigation ditch under alder and ash, then cuts back along the main river. Kingfishers flash past at eye level; in October the oaks turn the colour of burnt toast and locals appear with wicker baskets, eyes scanning the leaf litter for mushrooms. Foreigners are welcome provided they stick to public paths and don't pocket the fungi—picking without a permit risks an on-the-spot fine.

Summer highs of 24 °C sound mild to British ears, but humidity hovers around 70 % and shade is patchy. A lightweight rain jacket lives in daypacks here for the same reason it does in Manchester: blue skies can flip to drizzle in the length of a menu del día. Winter is wetter still; paths turn to porridge and the last bus leaves at 19:00, so plan like a local and finish the outdoor bit before mid-afternoon.

Lunch at lorry-driver o'clock

Weekday feeding time is 14:00 sharp. That's when Mesón do Pulpo Guindiboo on Rúa Alfonso Senra fills with hi-vis vests and the regional government's white vans. The €12 menú del día is Galicia with stabilisers: octopus sprinkled with paprika, chips instead of the traditional cachelos, and a half-bottle of house white that costs more to replace than the food itself. Vegetarians get tortilla or salad without eye-rolling; coeliacs should ask for "pan sin glúten" and expect a supermarket slice presented like contraband.

If tentacles aren't your thing, Hotel Restaurante Nogallás will swap in grilled beef or even chicken nuggets for children who've reached their cultural limit. Order churrasco—thin pork shoulder flash-grilled until the edges caramelise—if you miss British roast flavours. Pudding is usually crema catalana or arroz con leche, both served lukewarm because the fridge is full of beer. Pay in cash; many tills still close for the siesta hour and contactless terminals give up when the Wi-Fi drops.

Saturday night is different. Families drive in from the parishes, park on the central reservation and gossip over Estrella and Maeloc cider while teenagers circle on e-scooters. The atmosphere is more village fete than fiesta: no ear-splitting bands, just pavement life spilling into the road until the Guardia Civil cruise past at 01:00 and suggest everyone heads home.

What you won't tick off

There is no castle, no cathedral, no golden beach to Instagram. The parish church of Santa María opens for Mass at 20:00 and at no other predictable time; peer through the grille and you'll see a Baroque altarpiece gilded to the point of sunburn. Chapels and stone crosses dot the back lanes, but they mark crossroads rather than viewpoints—handy for navigation, useless for selfies.

Shopping is similarly practical. The Friday market spreads up Avenida da Constitución: socks, mobile-phone cases, pillow-cases, churros straight from the oil. The only souvenir on offer is local honey sold from the boot of a Renault 4, and even that disappears once the beekeeper's jars are gone. Bring a tote bag and cash in small notes; nobody has change for a fifty.

The biggest mistake short-stay visitors make is treating Ordes as the cheaper alternative to staying in Santiago. Accommodation is limited to two three-star hotels and a handful of rural houses whose owners live 30 km away and meet you with a key code. Public transport winds down after supper; miss the last bus and a taxi to Santiago costs €35—erasing the saving you made on the room.

When the valley works best

Come in late April for the agricultural fair and you'll see prize dairy cows paraded past the betting shop. May brings ox-eye daisies up to the door sills, and temperatures warm enough to sit outside without a coat. September is quieter: hay bales in the fields, blackberries on the lane to Trasanquelos, and bus seats to yourself.

July is doable but dull—concrete holds the heat and the murals fade under ultraviolet. August belongs to the local fiestas: foam parties in the polideportivo, brass bands tuning up outside the Lion's Club bar, and teenagers racing mopeds until the petrol runs out. Fun if you're invited, exhausting if you wanted a country walk.

Winter is for the committed only. Daylight shrinks to eight hours, rain arrives horizontally, and cafés close early when trade is slow. On the other hand, the valley's slate roofs steam like kettles after a shower, and you can have the river path to yourself apart from a farmer shifting cattle. Pack boots you don't mind trashing and a flask of tea; Galician hospitality extends to topping it up with orujo if you look cold enough.

The bottom line

Ordes rewards travellers who want to see Galicia clocking in rather than posing for postcards. You'll leave with mud on your trainers, a pocketful of bus tickets and a vague sense that you've eavesdropped on a region still arguing about milk quotas. That's worth the detour—provided you don't expect anything more glamorous than a really good octopus lunch and a cow in trainers painted on a wall.