Triacastela

The first thing that catches the eye is the rucksack queue outside the public albergue at one o'clock sharp. Fifty-six beds, no reservations, €8 a night – and by twenty past the place is full for the afternoon. This is Triacastela: a single-street mountain village that swells with pilgrims each lunchtime, then empties again before the church bell strikes six.

At 660 metres above sea level the air is thinner than on the coast, and the surrounding valley of the Oribio river traps cool air even in July. Walkers arriving from the 1,300-metre pass at O Cebreio feel the temperature rise just enough for shirtsleeves, yet the granite houses still hold yesterday's chill. It's a climate of sudden switches: sun on the ridge, mist in the hollow, and a wind that can flip an umbrella inside-out in the time it takes to order a coffee.

Stone, Water and Three Imaginary Castles

Triacastela's name recalls three Roman forts long since quarried away. What remains is a compact grid of stone walls, slate roofs and wooden balconies that lean slightly into the lane. The Iglesia de Santiago keeps a low profile: a Romanesque doorway, a bell-tower carved with the legendary castles, and an interior that smells of candle wax and damp sandstone. It takes five minutes to see, but the building anchors the village in the same way the village anchors the Camino – quietly, without fuss.

Behind the houses the river Oribio slides over polished boulders. A five-minute stroll downstream brings you to the Ponte Ribeira, a medieval packhorse bridge wide enough for one mule and now perfect for that mid-walk photo. In late spring the water is thigh-deep and clear; after autumn storms it swells to a brown torrent that drowns the stepping-stones. Local children learn early which rocks stay dry year-round; visitors discover them by trial and, often, error.

Forks in the Road

Every pilgrim has to make a choice here. The official Camino continues west through San Xil, climbing into oak forest and delivering wide views back towards the snow-streaked peaks of Os Ancares. A quieter alternative turns south-east to Samos, following the river valley for 6.3 km to one of Spain's oldest Benedictine monasteries. Both routes rejoin at Sarria, so the decision is less about geography than mood: mountain solitude or cloistered stone, birdsong or Gregorian chant. Taxi drivers at the village fountain will happily quote €25 to either destination for those whose boots have already spoken.

Day-trippers with a car can mimic the dilemma on a smaller scale. From the car park beside the sports field a marked lane climbs past allotments to the hamlet of Balsa, elevation gain 120 m, time twenty-five minutes. The path is rough but safe in trainers; the reward is a picnic table looking straight down the valley to the saw-toothed horizon. Turn around at any point – the views open up after the first ten minutes – and you'll still be back in time for lunch.

What to Eat When You're Sick of Pilgrim Menus

Galician cooking tastes better at altitude. The pulpo a la gallega at Bar-Café Fernández is simmered in copper cauldrons and arrives purple-speckled, dusted with rock salt and pimentón. A half-ración (€9) feeds two hungry walkers and won't weigh you down for the afternoon climb. Caldo gallego, the local broth of white beans, greens and potato, costs €4 a bowl and comes with a hunk of country bread thick enough to soak up the last drops. Ask for it "sin chorizo" if you need a vegetarian version – the kitchen is used to the request.

For pudding the bakery on the main street sells individual portions of tarta de Santiago (€2.20), almond cake stamped with the cross of St James. Pair it with a glass of young Ribeira Sacra wine – light, almost floral – which the barman will pour from a tap for less than the price of bottled water. If you're carrying lunch, buy a wedge of smoked San Simón cheese (€3.50) and a crusty loaf before the shop shuts at two. The supermarket reopens at five, but by then most hikers are already asleep.

The Numbers That Matter

Triacastela sits 32 km east of Lugo on the LU-633. Monbus runs one daily coach from the provincial capital (€5.60, 55 minutes); the stop is outside the albergue, handy for late arrivals. If you're driving, leave the A-6 motorway at Pedrafita and follow the mountain road for 23 km – narrow, twisty, but kept clear of snow until the first real winter storm, usually mid-December.

Accommodation clusters within 200 metres of the church. Beyond the public refuge there are five private hostels, the cleanest being Refugio del Oribio (€12 dorm, €35 double) where you can rinse socks in the garden sink and dry them on the chestnut tree. The only hotel, Casa Pacios, has eight rooms with valley views and a restaurant that stays open after nine – late by village standards. Prices start at €55 for a double, breakfast included, but book ahead in May or September when beds are currency.

Cash is king. The single ATM beside the town hall often runs dry on weekends; the nearest alternative is back in Becerreá, 18 km downhill. Carry small notes – the bakery refuses cards for purchases under €10 – and hoard coins for vending-machine coffee if you start walking at dawn.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

April and October give you green fields, mild afternoons and empty dawns. In May the camino swells with university groups; by July the village processes 800 pilgrims a day. August brings Spanish families in cars, the river shrinks to paddling depth and the albergue queue forms at noon. Winter is quiet but serious: snow can block the mountain pass overnight, temperatures drop to –5 °C and two of the hostels close entirely. Visit then only if you have a car, a full tank and a flexible timetable.

Rain is possible any month. Galicia's weather arrives horizontally, so a cheap poncho beats the best Gore-Tex if the wind is up. The cobbled lane through the village centre turns slick within minutes; trail shoes with decent tread save both dignity and ankles. On clear nights the sky is dark enough to see the Milky Way – step outside the street-lamp zone by the football pitch for the best view.

Leaving Without Regret (or With One)

Triacastela offers no postcard monuments, no castle ruins, no evening craft market. What it does give is the abrupt sense of having reached somewhere that still functions for reasons other than tourism. The butcher knows the day's kill, the baker knows whose bread is rising and the hospitalero can recite the bed count in three languages before you've finished unpacking. Stay an hour and you'll tick the sights; stay a night and you'll understand why half of Europe is walking through it. Leave at dawn, turn right for the mountains or left for the monastery, and the village will already be sweeping the porch for the next wave of boots.