Rois

The river Sar slips past Rois so quietly that you hear the stones shift beneath the water before you see the current. Stand on the alder-lined bank at dawn and the only other sound is a tractor coughing to life somewhere beyond the trees. Santiago de Compostela is 18 km away—close enough that pilgrims’ rucksacks appear on the early-morning bus—but the city might as well be another country once the lane bends and the mist settles.

This is not a postcard village with a tidy plaza and a single bar where the landlord knows your life story inside half a pint. Rois is a scatter of stone hamlets strung across low hills, each with its own churchyard, bread oven and opinion on last Sunday’s sermon. The council signs call the area O Sar, after the river that stitches the parishes together; locals simply say “en Rois” and leave it at that.

What the OS map won’t tell you

A British eye looks for a centre, a high street, somewhere to park and orientate. Rois refuses. The municipal building, chemist and cash machine all sit in the nucleus of Rois (population 320), but the next cluster of houses is two minutes away by car and called something different. Trying to “do” Rois in an afternoon ends in circling lanes that grow narrower every time the hedges meet a granite wall. Better to choose one river loop, one church atrium and one bar, then let the day expand or contract with the weather.

The stone granaries—hórreos—are the closest thing to monuments. Raised on mushroom-shaped stilts, they once kept rats out of the maize; now they keep Instagram out of the kitchen. You will find them in farmyards still stacked with last year’s potatoes, their slate roofs furred with the same moss that colours every roof in the parish. Pull in at the signed viewpoint outside Leroño and you can count six in a single field, none of them for show.

Walking without a queue

The Sar’s banks form a green corridor that feels oddly northern European—more Devon than Dalí. A level footpath runs 4 km between the medieval bridge at Angueira and the mill at Herbón, shaded by ash and wild cherry. After heavy rain the path floods; after a dry week it is firm enough for trainers. Kingfishers flash upstream, and if you stand still the darting shadow turns into a bird the colour of a Wedgwood teacup. No entrance fee, no gift shop, just the realisation that you have not spoken aloud for an hour.

Serious walkers can pick up the Camino Portugués variant that crosses the south-west corner of the municipality. The stage from Padrón to Santiago (25 km) is long but gentle, following Roman roads and eucalyptus shadows. Rois’ lone municipal albergue opens April–October; eight euros buys a bunk and a cold shower, but you must arrive on foot with a pilgrim credential. Day-trippers wanting a shorter loop should drive to the hamlet of Dodro, leave the car by the chapel and follow the yellow arrows west for 90 minutes until the path drops to the Sar. Turn round when you tire; there is no transport back.

Lunch at Spanish o’clock

Hunger is the best alarm clock in Rois. Kitchens shut at 4 pm and do not reopen until 8 pm; miss the gap and you will eat crisps in the car. Casa Sindo, opposite the church in Rois village, serves the reliable staples: pulpo a feira (octopus, olive oil and enough paprika to stain the plate), empanada of razor clams, and a bowl of caldo gallego thick enough to stand your spoon in. A plate of octopus costs around €12; empanada by the slice is €2.50. Order a glass of local Albariño and the barman will ask if you want the “do Rías Baixas” or the neighbour’s homemade. Both taste like green apples with a tide-salt finish.

Vegetarians do better than expected. Tarta de Santiago—ground almonds, eggs and lemon—appears everywhere and is routinely marked “V” on menus. A few village bars have learned to swap chorizo for spinach in the empanada; ask for “sin carne” and you may get a shrug followed by a surprisingly good bake.

When green turns grey

Galicia’s reputation for rain is not marketing. Annual rainfall in Rois tops 1,600 mm—Cardiff levels—only here it arrives in vertical, windless sheets that last exactly as long as a confession. Bring boots with a tread; the clay paths become slicks within minutes. On the upside, April and May explode into a green so vivid it looks backlit. Furze flames across the hillsides, and the Sar carries a faint scent of crushed bay leaves. September is quieter, the maize stubble gold against dark pines, the river low enough to reveal heron footprints in the mud.

Winter has its own constituency. The “bajón”—the low cloud that buries valleys—turns every lane into a tunnel. Daytime highs sit around 10 °C, identical to a Cornish January, but Spanish houses are built for summer heat. Electric radiators appear in the better casas rurales; otherwise you eat with your coat on and pretend the fire is decorative. Hotels are half-price and the bar conversation lasts until the owner finishes the bottle, but check road reports: the N-550 to Santiago floods at the Angueira bend most years.

Getting stuck (and unstuck)

A car is less a convenience here than a fifth limb. There are buses—Monbus line 15 Santiago–Rois–Padrón—but they run every two hours, finish at 9 pm and skip the smaller parishes entirely. Hire at Santiago airport (45 min, mostly motorway) and fill the tank in Padrón on the way; Rois’ single petrol pump closes on Sunday and takes cash only. Mobile coverage vanishes in the Sar gorge; download an offline map before you leave the main road. If the sat-nav loses its mind, follow the river upstream: every lane eventually hits the church with the big cedar tree in the graveyard. That counts as a landmark.

The honest verdict

Ris will disappoint anyone hunting a tiled-and-sangria version of Spain. It offers instead a slice of rural Europe where farms still outnumber second homes and the bar tariff is written in biro on a paper napkin. Come for the river light at dusk, for the church bell that rings for the dead and the living, for the sense that the map has folded you into a crease labelled “here be ordinary life.” Don’t expect to tick off sights; expect to remember how quiet the world can be when you stop moving—and how quickly a glass of Albariño can fill when someone hears your accent and decides you look thirsty.