Nogueira de Ramuín

The road signs begin to fib. At 600 m above sea level the sat-nav still claims Nogueira de Ramuín is five minutes away, yet every hair-pin on the OU-536 adds another three. Oak gives way to chestnut, phone reception flickers, and suddenly the Sil canyon appears – a slate-grey blade two hundred metres deep with terraces of vines clinging like rock-climbing allotments. You have arrived, but not in the usual Spanish-village sense: the municipality is a scatter of hamlets, stone huts and forest tracks rather than a neat plaza and a single church tower.

A monastery turned palace (and why you should stay)

Dominating the first headland is the Benedictine complex of San Estevo de Ribas de Sil. The building has shape-shifted since the tenth century – from hermit retreat to episcopal palace, from ruin to the newest Parador in Galicia. Even if hotel tariffs are beyond budget (doubles from €150), walk through the glass doors at dusk when day-trippers have left. The double-tier Renaissance cloister – locals call it "de los Obispos" – glows amber, and the only sound is the river slapping schist far below. Guests with room keys sit on the battlements drinking Ribeira Sacra viño tinto; non-residents can do the same in the bar for £3.50 a glass, no one checks.

Downstairs the restaurant will serve octopus if you ask, though the regional fix is caldo gallego, a white-bean soup thick with greens. Request the grilled chicken adaptation and the kitchen obliges without the eye-rolling you might expect in more smug parts of Spain. Dress code: walking boots are welcome; heels are suicidal on the sloped car park where spaces flatten out only before mid-afternoon.

Following water that forgot to be flat

Ordinary walking maps struggle here because rights-of-way follow medieval mule tracks, not contour lines. A reliable starter is the 5-km loop that begins behind the monastery, drops through sweet-chestnut coppice, then climbs to a road-wide balcony high above the river. The gradient is 250 m – think Yorkshire Dales rather than Everest – but humidity makes leaves treacherous; a pair of £4 supermarket crampons earns local respect between November and March.

Serious hikers can keep going east along the Ruta da Pedra e da Auga, a day-long traverse that links abandoned watermills and ends at the ghost hamlet of Castro. The reward is a private viewpoint: a 270-degree sweep of the canyon that coach parties never reach because their vehicles cannot reverse if they meet a tractor. Carry water; there are no cafés, only the occasional spring trickling from moss-covered pipes. Galicians drink straight off the rock – British stomachs should pack purification tablets.

River level: the other perspective

Catamaran trips leave from the tiny jetty of Doade, five kilometres north. Two departures a day in low season, four in September, and online booking is essential unless you enjoy watching Germans in Gore-Tex stride onto the gangway while you wave from the pier. The 90-minute cruise (£16) feels like entering a fjord someone has replanted with vineyards. Stone walls rise vertically; harvesters work from rope harnesses because tractors would topple. Commentary is Spanish-only, but the visual maths is simple: every terrace equals a family plot, 600 bottles a year if the frosts spare them.

Kayak rentals exist but depend on water release from up-river dams. Ask at the ticket kiosk the evening before; if staff shrug and say "mañana, quizás", believe them and plan a land-based day instead. There is no taxi rank at the dock; the uphill walk to the car park takes 25 minutes and works up an appetite for the empanada stall that materialises whenever boats are due.

Eating chestnuts, not walnuts

Despite the name (nogueira sounds like nuez, walnut), the municipality trades in chestnuts. October brings magosto fiestas where locals roast the fruit over open barrels, splash it with aguardiente and hand it out free. Year-round you will find crema de castaña soup, chestnut-flour cake, even chestnut beer brewed in neighbouring Pereiro. Pair any of these with tetilla cheese – a breast-shaped wedge designed to shock Victorian travellers – and a glass of Mencía red whose floral nose belies a granite-mineral finish.

Food prices stay grounded: three-course menú del día in the village bar is £11 and includes wine. The only culinary let-down is breakfast; Spaniards regard toast and jam as sufficient. Bring Yorkshire teabags and beg for extra-hot milk.

When to go, when to stay away

April–May and mid-September–October hit the sweet spot. Vineyards glow acid-green or rust-red, daylight lasts long enough for afternoon cruising, and night temperatures still drop low enough for decent sleep. Summer can hit 34 °C on the canyon rim while the river remains 14 °C; the thermal jolt breeds fog that strands motorists on the OU-536 until lunchtime. Conversely, December daylight shrinks to nine hours and the Parador closes three weekdays out of seven, trimming the already limited restaurant choice.

Bank-holiday weekends see Spanish families invade; car-park queues at miradors stretch 40 minutes and the catamaran sells out by 10 a.m. Conversely, a Tuesday in March can feel post-apocalyptic: everything open, nobody there, but some cafés shut early for no announced reason.

The blunt truths

Public transport is fiction. The nearest railway station is Ourense, 28 km south; a taxi from the rank costs €45 and drivers often refuse if your accommodation lies down an unmade lane. Hire cars from Santiago airport (2 h 15 min) come with the usual Spanish fuel sting – €1.70 a litre on the motorway, cheaper in Ourense but only if you remember to divert before the mountain climb.

Mobile coverage is patchy; download offline maps. Google’s estimated driving times assume you are Fernando Alonso on amphetamines – add 25% for legal cornering and the inevitable tractor convoy shifting hay bales bigger than a Fiat 500.

Finally, do not expect a souvenir high street. The village shop doubles as the post office and shuts for siesta precisely when you want soft drinks. Bring a picnic, fill the tank, and surrender to the chestnut-scented emptiness. You will leave with one certainty: the map lied about distance, but told the truth about altitude, and that is exactly why the wine tastes of altitude and adventure.