Forcarei

Granite, Green, and Getting Your Boots Dirty

At 600 metres above sea level, Forcarei feels like someone opened a window. The air thins, the temperature drops five degrees, and the eucalyptus-scented breeze carries something you won’t find on the coast: silence broken only by water. This is interior Galicia, where roads twist through folds of Atlantic rainforest and every second building seems to be either a chapel, a cruceiro (stone cross), or a bar that may—or may not—be open.

The village itself is less a single settlement than a scatter of parishes stitched together by narrow lanes and old rights-of-way. Think of it as a walking buffet rather than a set-menu dinner; you choose a valley, follow a river, and see what turns up. One morning that might be a pre-Romanesque church swallowed by ivy, the next a water-mill still grinding maize for the neighbour’s chickens. Pace matters: if you cover more than 12 km before lunch, you’re probably rushing.

Walking: The Real Town Centre

Forget souvenir shops—Forcarei’s high street is a 12-km loop that drops from the monastery of Santa María de Aciveiro into the Deza valley and climbs back through oak and pine. The monastery bar opens only at weekends, so fill your bottle at the stone fountain by the gate; the water is cold enough to make your teeth ache. From there the yellow-and-white waymarks lead downhill past abandoned terraces of cabbages and kale, then up again to a mirador that lets you see three provinces at once. On a clear day you can pick out the glass tower of Santiago cathedral 40 km away; at dusk you’ll see only the glow, like a distant ferry on the horizon.

Maps on signposts are decent but stop abruptly where the council boundary ends. Download the track from Wikiloc before you leave the hotel Wi-Fi; phone signal collapses in every second valley and you don’t want to discover that while standing in a bramble patch wondering which way the river went.

Cyclists are tolerated rather than catered for. Roads are smooth but rarely flat—expect 100 m climbs that look innocent on the profile yet feel Alpine after the fourth repetition. A popular gravel route links five of the nine parishes, finishing at the micro-brewery in A Estrada where Sangriña IPA tastes better than it has any right to.

What Passes for Sights

The parish church of Santa María de Bermes won’t wow anyone who’s just stepped off the Camino Francés. What it will do is teach you how Romanesque builders worked with whatever granite lay to hand: stones the size of dishwashers, fitted together without mortar thick enough to slide a coin into. Arrive at 11 a.m. on a weekday and the key-keeper appears from the house opposite; she’ll point out the capital where a medieval sculptor sneaked in a pagan hare, then offer a shot of home-made orujo that makes the morning’s final climb feel worthwhile.

Smaller chapels—San Mamede de Barro, San Xusto de Cabeza—stand alone in fields, doors unlocked, bells still rung on feast days. Inside you’ll find dusty ropes of garlic hanging from the rafters and, if you’re lucky, a notebook where visitors record the mileage they’ve walked that day. The English entries read like confessions: “Thought we could do 25 km before lunch. We could not.”

Rain, Fog, and the Wrong Shoes

Weather forecasts lie. A blue-sky dawn can collapse into hill fog by coffee time; what looks like a gentle shower in the valley turns to sideways rain at 700 m. Pack a proper jacket even in July—especially in July, when Atlantic clouds boil inland and the temperature swings from 28 °C to 12 °C before you’ve finished your tortilla.

Paths turn slick after rain. The local clay sticks to boots like fresh cement and will add half a kilo to each foot within 200 m. If the forecast shows orange on the Meteogalicia app, swap the river walk for a lane: you’ll still see the same stone crosses and drinking fountains, but you won’t spend the evening scraping mud off laces in the hotel sink.

Eating: When the Bars Open, They Mean It

Galician cuisine in the interior is built for people who’ve spent the morning swinging a hoe. Portions are sized for two, prices for one. In Casa Curro (Soutelo) the pulpo arrives on a wooden plate the diameter of a steering wheel, dusted with pimentón sharp enough to make your nose tingle. A half-ración is still enough; order a full one and the waiter will raise an eyebrow that says “Are you sure?”

Sunday lunch is sacred. Bars close the kitchen at 16:00 sharp; turn up at 16:05 and you’ll be offered crisps and a beer while the staff mops around your feet. If you’re self-catering, stock up on Saturday evening—supermarkets shut all day Sunday and the nearest 24-hour garage is 25 km away on the N-525.

Vegetarians survive on caldo gallego (potato, greens, white beans) and tarta de Santiago. Vegans should learn the phrase “sen queixo, por favor”—cheese turns up even on salads you thought were safe.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Monbus runs one daily service from Santiago airport direct to Forcarei; it leaves at 14:15, costs €9, and drops you beside the municipal albergue. Miss it and you’ll need two buses and a miracle. A pre-booked taxi is €70—cheaper than a night in Santiago if your flight lands late.

Having a car helps, but don’t trust Google’s time estimates. The shortest route to Ourense includes 12 km of single-track road where reversing uphill round a bend is normal. Meet a timber lorry and you’ll add twenty minutes of awkward ballet. Fill the tank in Forcarei itself; the next station is 20 km away and closes for siesta.

Last Light

Stay past dusk and you’ll understand why returning visitors mention stars before they mention churches. Light pollution is measured in single-digit lux; on moonless nights the Milky Way looks like someone spilled sugar across black marble. Bring a fleece—the temperature drops ten degrees within an hour of sunset—and walk a hundred metres from the road. Stand still long enough and you’ll hear the river you crossed earlier, still working its way downhill to the Atlantic, 60 km away.

Forcarei doesn’t sell itself because it doesn’t need to. It offers space, water, stone, and the occasional bar that remembers how you like your coffee. Take it slowly, pack dry socks, and don’t plan more than one parish per morning. The mountain isn’t going anywhere; let it breathe around you.