Cerdido

The train stops at 11:42, give or take ten minutes of Spanish elasticity, and the single carriage sighs open onto a lane that climbs straight uphill. No taxi rank, no ticket machine—just a hand-painted board that reads “Cerdido” and the smell of eucalyptus dripping from last night’s rain. From that moment you realise the map hasn’t exaggerated: this is a parish of hamlets, not a village with a centre to tick off.

What the Atlantic Left Behind

Cerdido sits only 15 km from the Ortegal coast as the gull flies, yet the ocean might as well be in another province. The air is heavy with grass, not salt; the roads bend inland, following streams that once powered tiny maize mills. Stone hórreos—granaries on stilts—still stand beside farm gates, their timber weathered to the colour of old pewter. They aren’t arranged for selfies; they’re simply working, storing potatoes or garden tools, occasionally leaning at tipsy angles that would give a health-and-safety officer nightmares.

Drive the AC-102 at dawn and you’ll see the territory stitch itself together: meadows stitched by mossy walls, clumps of oak and the inevitable eucalyptus planted for pulp. Cattle grids rattle under the tyres; a farmer in green overalls lifts two fingers from the steering wheel in greeting, the Galician version of a royal wave. The population is spread so thin—about 1,100 souls—that silence feels like a fifth element.

A Circular Walk that Refuses to Behave

Park by the church of San Xoán in Vila da Igrexa, the closest thing to a hub. The building is 19th-century rural stone, sober as a Presbyterian kirk, with a bell that still calls the faithful at noon. From the porch a tarmac lane slides downhill past vegetable plots protected by netting against the real local landlords: wild boar and the occasional pine marten. Ignore the urge to stride ahead; the pleasure here is in the minutiae—lichen writing its slow graffiti on granite, a cruceiro cross whose Christ figure has lost a nose but gained an orange lichen halo.

After twenty minutes the asphalt turns to a stony track that dips towards the Rego do Mouriño. Here the council has installed a neat wooden handrail, but the mud laughs at human ambition. Trainers are fine in high summer; in April you’ll wish for proper boots. Cross the stream by a slab of slate, climb past a barn where hay bales smell of warm earth, and the valley suddenly opens. You can see all the way to the Siaparo ridge, a rumpled green duvet fading to blue. The circuit back to the church takes ninety minutes if you resist stopping; most people take two, slowed by blackberries and the realisation they haven’t seen another walker.

When Lunch Appears Only on Weekends

There is no daily menu del día parade. The single bar, O Forno, opens at eight for coffee and churros, shuts at three, then maybe reopens at the owner’s whim. Saturday is safest. Order caldo gallego, a broth thick with white beans and turnip tops that tastes like something your grandmother might have simmered after a marrow-chilling walk. Add a slice of local cow-milk cheese, milder than Cheddar but with a faint tang, and a small Estrella beer—served, pleasingly, at cellar temperature rather than ice-cold. The bill hovers around €12; cash only, because the card machine “is resting”.

If the bar is shuttered, drive 12 km north to Cedeira where the fishing port supplies hake so fresh it still holds the Atlantic’s chill. Grilled with olive oil and a flick of garlic, it’s child-friendly and bone-free if you ask sin espinas. The Sunday morning market in neighbouring Ortigueira sells tarta de Santiago by the slice, almond cake dusted with the cross of St James in icing sugar—sweet enough to keep you pedalling uphill afterwards.

Getting Here Without Tears

Fly to A Coruña from London-Stansted with Vueling, or to Santiago from Gatwick with EasyJet; both routes run year-round, prices start near £45 return if you avoid August. Hire cars sit in the terminal; take the AP-9 north-west, fork onto the AC-115 at exit 31F, then wriggle along the AC-102 for the final 25 km. Roads narrow to single-track with passing bays, but traffic is so light you’ll meet more cows than cars.

No car? Trains leave A Coruña twice daily, trundling for 1 h 20 min to Cerdido halt, a concrete platform 2 km below the church. Arrange a lift in advance—local taxi driver Manolo (0034 6XX XXX XXX) will collect for €10 if you WhatsApp him before you board. Buses are mythical; the school service is reserved for children with library cards and Galician accents.

The Seasonal Contract

Spring arrives late at 400 m above sea level; gorse blooms in April, turning hillsides yellow just as British daffodils collapse. By May the days stretch to 9 p.m., meadows are knee-deep with buttercups and temperatures sit comfortably at 18 °C—perfect for walking without the coastal wind that sandblasts nearby beaches. Autumn is equally gentle, tinted with copper beech and the smell of newly cut firewood. Winter, however, earns respect. Atlantic fronts slam inland, transforming lanes into rivulets; mist parks itself in the valley for days. Accommodation closes, mobile signal flickers, and you’ll need chains if snow decides to visit. July and August bring Spanish families, cars parked at haphazard angles beside grass verges, and the only time you might queue for a coffee. Even then “busy” means five people at the bar.

The Honest Ledger

Cerdido will not keep a teenager entertained for a week. Nightlife is the Milky Way, and shopping is restricted to the bread van that toots through on Tuesday and Friday. Mobile coverage is patchy enough that Spotify buffers halfway through a song. Yet for anyone who measures holiday success in lungfuls of clean air and the absence of an itinerary, the place delivers. Walk, eat soup, read a chapter, watch clouds repeat their slow-motion breaking wave against the ridge. Then drive home realising you still can’t pronounce “Xoán” properly—and that, perhaps, is reason enough to return.