Folgoso do Courel

The Road that Refuses to Straighten

The first clue that you've left standard-issue Spain behind is the LU-P-5601. It twists out of Quiroga, crosses the Sil gorge on a 1950s stone bridge, then starts to climb with the determination of a goat. By the time the chestnut trunks close overhead and the tarmac narrows to a single polite lane, the sat-nav has given up and even the Galician radio station crackles into static. This is the entrance exam to Folgoso do Courel: fail it and you'll be back in the lowlands for coffee; pass and the valley lets you in, no questions asked.

At 700 m and rising, the air is cooler than the vineyards left behind twenty minutes earlier. Atlantic breezes slip over the ridge, so a July afternoon can feel like a warm May day in the Lake District—until the sun breaks through and the slate rooftops shimmer like wet steel.

Villages that Lean into the Slope

Forget the white-washed cubes of Andalucía. Here the houses are dressed in the mountain itself: slabs of dark slate stacked so close you can trace the quarry tool-marks. In Seoane, one of the three main hamlets, the church bell still marks the hours for field workers and the only traffic jam is when Señora María herds her five cows across the only street at milking time. Walk twenty paces uphill and you reach a threshing floor carved into the bedrock; the view opens westward across a gorge so deep that griffon vultures circle below eye-level.

The cottages aren't museums. Smoke curls from chimneys, vegetable plots are weeded daily, and the wooden balconies (called corredores) carry last week's laundry as proudly as any Instagram filter. If a door is open, a polite "Boas!" brings a wave; if it's shut, that's privacy, not a photo opportunity.

Forests that Feed You

October turns the valley into a bronze ocean. Sweet-chestnut trees—planted long before the Romans arrived—drop glossy nuts that locals still gather with wicker baskets and long canes. The Magosto festival (first weekend of November) is less fiesta, more communal outdoor roast: chestnuts scored on the fire, served with queixo do Courel cheese and young wine that tastes of apples and slate. Visitors are welcome, but there's no wristband, no programme, just follow the smell of smoke to the village square and bring your own plate.

Outside festival time, the forest floor offers a quieter menu. Wild boar dig for hazelnuts, and chanterelles push through the leaf-litter after rain. Spanish foragers are protective; join a guided walk through the park office in Folgoso (€15, booking essential) if you want to fill a basket legally.

Footpaths that Keep Their Promises

Topographical maps look gentle: 8 km from Folgoso to the abandoned mining hamlet of S. Xoán de Courel. On the ground the trail rises 450 m, drops to river level, then climbs again on cobbles polished by centuries of mule traffic. Allow four hours, not two, and carry water—there's no café at the far end, only a stone chapel built into the cliff and the echo of your own breathing.

For something shorter, the 3 km loop above A Devesa follows an old irrigation channel. The path is level, shaded, and ends at a viewpoint where buzzards ride thermals at head height. Interpretation boards are in Galician and English; phone-signal is non-existent, so photograph the map at the start.

When snow arrives (usually January) the higher tracks become cross-country ski routes. The same slopes bloom with bluebells in April; the ski poles are swapped for walking sticks and the only white left is the village baker's apron.

What Passes for Nightlife

Evenings revolve around the bar at the Casa do Batán rural house. The television shows last week's football highlights on mute; the soundtrack is Galician voices discussing rainfall and the price of chestnuts. Order costela con castañas—pork ribs slow-cooked with chestnuts until the meat slips off the bone like a well-worn sock. A half-ración (€9) feeds two modest British appetites; the house red from Quiroga costs €2.40 a glass and tastes sharper than Rioja, perfect for cutting the sweetness.

If you prefer your own company, bring supplies before you drive up. The village shop opens 9–1, closes for siesta, and stocks little beyond tinned tuna, UHT milk and locally made honey that sets rock-hard in cold kitchens.

Honest Practicalities

Getting here: No railway survives the gradients. From the UK, fly to Santiago or A Coruña, collect a hire car, and allow two and a half hours on mountain roads. Petrol stations close at 21:00; fill up in Quiroga or risk a 40 km round trip for diesel.

Accommodation: Sixteen rural houses offer rooms from €55 a night; most require a two-night minimum at weekends. Casa de Campo O Castaño has Wi-Fi that actually reaches bedrooms; others advertise it only in the communal dining room. January and February see half the properties shuttered—ring ahead rather than trust booking sites.

Weather insurance: A cloud can replace sunshine in ten flat minutes. Pack a light waterproof May–October, full waterproof November–April. Walking boots with ankle support beat trail shoes on slimy slate.

Cash: The only ATM sits outside the ayuntamiento and spent most of last winter out of order. Bars and house owners prefer cash; cards are greeted with the same suspicion you'd reserve for a leaking biro.

Leaving without Speeding

The descent feels shorter, but the mountain doesn't like to be rushed. Lorries hauling timber swing wide on hairpins; local drivers know every pothole by name. Pull over at the Mirador de Covelo: the valley you just walked lies folded below like a green and grey quilt, the slate roofs glinting where the sun catches them. By the time you reach the lowland vineyards the temperature has risen six degrees, phone reception is back, and the real world starts pinging for attention. Let it wait. The Courel works on a slower clock, and it will still be ticking when you're ready to return.