A Peroxa

The chestnut sponge arrives still warm, its surface dusted with sugar that catches the light like frost. Outside Casa Sindo, lorries thunder past on the N-120, yet the only other sound inside is the click of a cigarette lighter and the slow wheeze of an espresso machine. This is A Peroxa: a municipality that measures time in vineyard seasons rather than tourist itineraries, where cake appears faster than phone signal, and where the castle key hangs behind the altar of a 12th-century church.

A Scatter of Hamlets, Not a Postcard

British travellers expecting a compact chocolate-box village will need to recalibrate. A Peroxa is an administrative patchwork of stone houses, smallholdings and family plots spread across three main parishes—A Peroxa itself, Vilar de Vacas and Tamallancos—each separated by two kilometres of winding road. The municipality’s 5,000 residents live in thin ribbons along hillsides terraced for vines, the granite walls held together by moss and habit. Satellite navigation regularly surrenders; road signs are printed only in Galician. A hire car is less a luxury than a prerequisite: without one, the walk from the castle ruins to the only reliably open bar takes forty-five minutes along a verge meant for tractors.

Those ruins, the Castelo da Rocha, sit on a spur above the Rial valley. A five-minute scramble through gorse brings you to a knee-high wall and a view that justifies the detour: rows of Mencía vines stitch the slopes like green corduroy, and the morning mist lifts to reveal the Minho highway glinting far below. Take the leaflet titled “Ruta do Castelo” from the Xunta kiosk in Ourense first; on-site interpretation is limited to a rusted plaque and, on weekdays, the distant clang of a farmer repairing a boundary fence.

The Wine Runs Through It

This is entry-level Ribeira Sacra country. The denomination’s vertiginous river canyons lie twenty minutes north, but A Peroxa shares the same slate soils and Atlantic breeze. Small growers still sell grapes to the local cooperative, yet a handful of family bodegas will open for walk-ins if you telephone ahead. Adega Vella keeps English tasting notes beside the spittoon and pours a Mencía that sits somewhere between Beaujolais and Côtes du Rhône: light enough for lunch, earthy enough to remind you it was trodden by boots, not machines. A bottle to go rarely tops nine euros; they’ll rinse an empty water bottle if you’ve forgotten your own.

Food is geared to field workers rather than tasting menus. Mid-week, the choice narrows to Casa Sindo or nothing. Octopus arrives rubbery or perfect—there is no middle ground—so order “media ración” to test the kitchen’s mood. The accompanying potatoes, thick coins drizzled with pimentón and olive oil, make a safer bet for the squeamish. Finish with tarta de castaña, a local chestnut sponge less cloying than the almond-heavy Santiago tart sold nearer the coast. Payment is cash only; the solitary ATM on Rúa do Medio empties on Friday afternoon and isn’t refilled until Monday.

Walking Without Way-Marks

There are no ticket booths, audio guides or colour-coded arrows here. What exists is a lattice of old mule tracks linking parishes, still used by farmers checking irrigation pipes. One gentle circuit starts behind the church of Santa María Magdalena, descends past hórreos on stone stilts, then climbs back through pine and eucalyptus. Allow ninety minutes, plus pauses to let grazing cows shuffle off the path. After rain—common from October to May—granite slabs turn slick as black ice; walking shoes with tread are more use than polished boots made for city tapas bars.

Serious hikers can string together a longer figure-of-eight that incorporates the castle and the abandoned hamlet of A Gouxa, but you’ll need an offline map; mobile data drops to 3G on EE and Three networks, and Galician place-names rarely match their Spanish equivalents on Google Maps. Pack water: fountains marked on old topographic sheets have a habit of being capped or overgrown.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Spring brings fluorescent gorse and the risk of tractor-induced traffic jams at rush hour—meaning two vehicles meeting on a lane wide enough for one. Temperatures hover around 18 °C in April, ideal for walking, though Atlantic weather fronts can turn a clear morning soggy by coffee. Autumn is harvest season: whole families snip grape bunches into yellow plastic crates, and the air smells of crushed juice fermenting on tyres. Days shorten fast; by six the hills fade to silhouette and you’ll want to be off unlit roads.

Summer is warm but rarely stifling—mid-20s rather than the 40 °C baked further south on the Castilian plateau. The upside is reliable sunshine; the downside is that both recommended cafés close on random August afternoons when the owners head to the coast. Monday is the perennial enemy: shutters stay down, the castle gate is padlocked, and the priest who holds the key won’t appear until after 17:00.

Winter is quiet, too quiet. Mountain air sharpens, wood smoke hangs in the valleys, and the slate roofs glitter with frost. Views open up once the vines lose their leaves, but rural guesthouses switch to weekend-only lets, and some country lanes become single-track ice rinks. Unless you crave absolute solitude, plan a day-trip from Ourense rather than an overnight.

Beds, Bread and Basics

Accommodation is thin on the ground. Three stone cottages have been restored as holiday lets; two more operate as casas rurales with breakfast brought in a wicker basket because there’s no on-site kitchen. Expect Wi-Fi that relies on repeaters and hot water courtesy of a temperamental boiler you’ll share with the swallows nesting under the eaves. Book before you arrive; reception desks don’t exist, and the English spoken is enthusiastic but limited.

For supplies, the bread van arrives in the main square at 10:30 each morning—follow the tooting horn. Fresh fish is delivered twice a week from the coast in an unrefrigerated van; locals sniff before they buy. There is no Sunday service, petrol station or pharmacy within the municipal boundary. The nearest hospital is twenty-five minutes away in Ourense; carry a basic kit if you plan aggressive hikes.

Leaving Without a Fridge Magnet

A Peroxa will not suit travellers chasing bucket-list ticks. What it offers instead is a glimpse of rural Galicia in working clothes: a place where the church bell still marks the hours, where wine is measured in jugfuls not units, and where the loudest nightlife is the grunt of wild boar rooting among the vines after dark. Come prepared—euros in your pocket, map downloaded, expectations lowered to walking pace—and the municipality repays with silence, sudden panoramas and a chestnut-flavoured sugar hit that lingers all the way back to the airport. Miss the turn-off, and you’ll simply drive through none the wiser, which, depending on your view of unhurried Spain, may be either the point or the problem.