A Teixeira

The road to A Teixeira climbs so steeply that even rental-car temperature gauges drop three degrees in twenty minutes. At 750 metres above sea level, this scatter of stone hamlets sits just below the cloud line that often parks itself over Galicia’s interior mountains. What looks like morning mist on the approach is frequently low cloud; locals call it orballo, the fine drizzle that keeps the slate roofs shining and the chestnut trees alive.

There is no village centre, no plaza mayor, no single church tower to orientate yourself. Instead, A Teixeira strings itself along ridge-top lanes that twist between tiny settlements—Pena, Lamas, O Reino—each with maybe a dozen granite houses and a communal bread oven still blackened from last weekend’s bake. Population signs read 330 on a good day; school holidays drop it below 250. The nearest shop is a 20-minute drive, the nearest cash machine even farther. This is not a place to refuel on a whim.

Walking the Green Canyon Rim

What brings the stubborn minority of British visitors here is the Sil canyon, Spain’s lesser-known answer to the Grand Canyon but upholstered in gorse and oak. From the track above A Teixeira the river glints 500 metres below, a silver thread hemmed by terraced vineyards that once supplied Roman garrisons. The PR-G 158 footpath starts behind the chapel of San Xoán and drops 7 km to the river at Parada do Sil—knees will complain, but the reward is a perspective most coach parties never see. Stone steps are polished to a skid by centuries of mule traffic; walking poles earn their keep after any hint of rain.

If a full descent feels masochistic, the 5 km ridge loop to A Cova keeps you at altitude and offers the same vertigo-inducing views without the calf-killing climb back. Markers are painted stones, not flashy metal signs; if you pass a herdsman’s hut built into a boulder, you’ve gone 100 metres too far.

Mobile reception vanishes the moment you leave the tarmac. EE and Vodafone users report one bar at the mirador, zero everywhere else. Download offline maps before you leave the rental car park at Santiago; Google’s blue dot will otherwise march confidently across blank white space while you wonder whether the next junction is a dead end or a cliff.

Granite, Chestnuts and the Sound of Nothing

Architecture here predates the concept of “rural chic”. Houses grow straight out of bedrock, their roofs pinned by hand-cut slabs weighing half a tonne each. Many still have the original hórreo—a stone granary on stilts—used to store chestnuts and keep rodents at bay. In October these turn into sweet-smelling bunkers as families roast the first harvest over open fires; the local magosto festival is less organised event, more whoever-turns-up-with-wine. Dates shift each year, announced on a sheet of paper taped to the bakery in Parada do Sil.

Between hamlets the lanes narrow to single-track with pull-ins every 300 metres. Meeting a tractor is inevitable; reverse etiquette favours the vehicle closest to a passing place, no matter who is driving the hire car. Engines off, window down, you’ll usually get a nod and directions that mix kilometres with “two more bends after the big chestnut”. English is rarely spoken; a downloaded Galician phrase list works better than Google Translate’s stuttering voice.

Silence, when it comes, is complete. No distant motorway, no jet trail, just the click of cooling slate and the odd cowbell echoing across the ravine. Midweek walkers report standing still long enough to hear their own heartbeat—something most of us last experienced in childhood.

Where to Eat Without a Menu in English

A Teixeira itself has no restaurants, only a bar in Lamas that opens when the owner feels like it. Plan to eat in neighbouring Parada do Sil, ten minutes down the mountain. Casa Grande de Cristosende serves a weekday menú del día at €14; ask for the cocido gallego stew “en ración pequeña” if you don’t fancy half a pig’s trotter. Vegetarians can get potatoes, cabbage and chickpeas in the same broth if you phone the night before—staff are used to Brits appearing with dietary notes written on the back of boarding passes.

Hostal Restaurante Valilongo keeps things simpler: grilled pork sirloin, chips, salad. Wine comes in white ceramic cups; it’s local, drinkable and counts as one of your five-a-day if you squint. Finish at Casa Lelo in neighbouring Ourense province for the famous tarta de queso, a crustless baked cheesecake that arrives slightly wobbling and tastes like Spanish-dairyo New York. They’ll wrap a slice in foil for the climb back if you ask nicely.

Getting It Wrong So You Don’t Have To

The biggest error is timing. Sunday lunchtime sees every shutter pulled down; petrol, croissants, even bottled water require a 40-minute round trip to Ourense. Arrive with half a tank and a boot full of snacks or risk a very quiet afternoon staring at closed metal doors.

Footwear matters more than you think. Galicia’s slate sheens over with dew until late morning; trainers that coped fine on Dartmoor will skate here. Proper tread saves embarrassment and A&E visits—Santiago’s hospitals are 90 minutes away on switchback roads you won’t fancy with a fractured wrist.

Weather forecasts read like mild anxiety attacks. Even in May expect 12 °C and drizzle at altitude while the coast 100 km west swelters in 26 °C sunshine. Pack a fleece in August; you’ll wear it during evening walks when the sun drops behind the canyon rim and temperature plummets ten degrees in half an hour.

When to Come and When to Stay Away

Spring brings wild garlic along the paths and the first green haze on chestnut branches; it’s ideal hiking weather but carry a lightweight waterproof—showers blow in fast over the ridge. Autumn colours peak during the last two weeks of October, coinciding with magosto and the chestnut harvest. Tracks are carpeted with prickly husks; thick soles save cursing.

Mid-July to mid-August is surprisingly busy—Spanish second-home owners arrive, cars edge awkwardly past each other and the silence fractures. Accommodation within the municipality fills; you’ll stay farther down the mountain and drive up for walks. Winter can be magical if you enjoy empty trails, but the final 4 km of road sometimes ices over. Chains or 4×4 are sensible after snowfall; otherwise you’ll be the unexpected guest of whoever owns the nearest house until the gritter appears.

Leaving Without a Souvenir

There are no souvenir shops, no fridge-magnet hawkers, no “I ♥ Galicia” mugs. Instead you take away the echo of canyon silence, boots stained green from oak leaves, and the realisation that Spain still contains places where the day is measured by bread rising and wood smoke drifting, not by Wi-Fi bars or Instagram likes. Drive back down the mountain, phone signal flickers alive, and the twenty-first century reasserts itself with a ping. Some travellers find that reassuring; others turn the car round for one more night above the cloud line.