Poio

The tide was halfway out when the coach party from Santiago emptied into Combarro’s main lane. Phones shot up, elbows sharpened, and within three minutes the stone crucifix that marks the waterfront was invisible behind selfie sticks. Ten kilometres earlier, back in the monastery cloister at San Xoán de Poio, the only sound had been a single monk’s sandals on 13th-century flagstones. Same municipality, same morning, two moods—Poio in miniature.

A Coast that Thinks in Parishes, not Postcards

Administratively Poio is a single coastal council, yet it behaves like a string of seaside parishes nailed to a hillside. Combarero, Raxó, Samieira, Lourido—each has its own small beach, its own bar, its own sense of when the day starts. The PO-308 coast road stitches them together in barely ten minutes of driving, but walkers quickly discover the lie: lanes dive seaward, stairs climb back through vines, and what looks like a gentle stroll turns into a thigh-burning circuit. OSM shows 50 m contours; calves feel every one.

The topography explains the settlement pattern. Narrow alluvial strips meet granite outcrops; farmers terraced what they could, monks claimed the flatter uplands, fishermen built directly on the foreshore. The result is a place where stone granaries—hórreos—really do overhang the water, balanced on mushroom-shaped stilts so rats couldn’t reach the grain. Instagram has made the image famous, yet the design is purely practical: high tide used to lap the foundations twice a day before the 1970s harbour extension.

Between Cloister and Estuary

San Xoán de Poio monastery dominates the ridge above the town. The façade is pure 18th-century Baroque swagger, but step inside and Romanesque bones show through. The highlight is the double-decker cloister: upstairs, a ceramic map of the Camino Portuguese curls around the wall, each yellow tile positioned by a different pilgrim who lodged here. Entrance is €2.50, exact coins preferred, and the door is locked outside the appointed hours—currently 10.30–13.00 & 16.00–18.30 except Mondays. Turn up at lunchtime and you’ll photograph a shut wicket, nothing more.

Below the monastery the land falls away to the Ría de Pontevedra. On clear mornings the water turns the same metallic green as a British canal; when the wind swings south-westerly it gun-metals into the Bay of Biscay. Either way the estuary is the village’s working yard: trays of mussels bob on long ropes, small dredgers cough out clams, and kayakers thread between both. Rental kayaks appear on Raxó beach from Easter onward; figure €12 an hour, but if the swell is above 0.5 m the concession closes—Atlantic safety rules, no debate.

Sand, Cobbles and Sunday Lunch

Beaches are pocket-sized. Lourido offers 400 m of coarse sand and a summer lifeguard; Covelo, round the headland, is half that and popular with local families because cars can park on the slip. Neither matches the wild dune systems of the Cíes islands 40 minutes away by boat, yet they solve the “what do we do until lunch?” question without requiring a ferry timetable. Water temperature peaks at 19 °C in August—manageable for Cornish swimmers, brisk for everyone else.

Back inland, lanes narrow to single-track between stone walls. Combarro’s main street is pedestrian in theory, delivery vans in practice. The best tactic is to abandon the car at the top car park (€1.30 for three hours, free after 20.00) and wander downhill. Hórreos line up like garden sheds on stilts, crucifixes mark former plague boundaries, and every third doorway sells either Albariño by the glass or polished jet jewellery. Quality varies: the wine is reliably cold, the jet often imported. Buy the former.

Sunday lunch remains the day’s pivot. Michelin-starred Casa Solla, ten minutes up the road in Padrenda, will serve a 22-course “mini” tasting for €75 if you book ahead; mention you’re driving and sommelier Ismael offers 50 ml measures. Prefer something simpler? O Eirado das Margaridas plates arroz de marisco (seafood rice) for two at €28 total; owner Margarita speaks English and will swap clams for firm-fleshed gurnard if chewy shellfish aren’t your thing. Kitchens close at 16.00 sharp—arrive post-siesta and you’ll be offered crisps and desperation.

When the Crowds Thin

August is frantic. Tour coaches use Combarro as a coffee stop between Santiago and Sanxenxo, and by 11.00 the lanes resemble Oxford Street with granite. May, early June and late September give longer shadows, quieter ferries, and the same 22 °C afternoons. Winter is a gamble: days of Atlantic fog reduce visibility to one hórreo, but when high pressure parks overhead the ría turns glassy and you’ll share the paseo with retired naval officers and their determined dogs. Pack a light rain-shell regardless; Galicia can flip from T-shirt to horizontal drizzle faster than a ScotRail announcement.

Access without a car is doable but patience-testing. Monbus runs hourly from Pontevedra (€2 return, 15 min), yet printed timetables are Galician-only and the stop name changes depending on direction. Hire a small car at the station instead; roads are well-surfaced and parking discs operate only in Pontevedra centre itself. British visitors towing caravans appreciate the motorhome aire at Campelo: hardstanding, grey-water dump, shade pines, €14.95 with no height barrier—rare on this coast.

Worth the Detour?

Poio won’t hand you a single “wow” moment like the cathedral at Santiago or the cliff at Finisterre. Its appeal is cumulative: the smell of wet granite at low tide, the clink of mussel shells underfoot, the sudden estuary vista when a lane tilts seaward. Stay two nights and you’ll still be discovering shortcuts between parishes; attempt to “do” it in a selfie-hour and you’ll leave complaining about coach crowds. Treat the place as a base—Camino stages south to Combarro, boat trips north to the Cíes, tapas runs into Pontevedra—and the municipality makes sense. Arrive expecting a neat tick-box village and the tide will already have turned.