Celanova

The Thursday market spills across Celanova's stone streets like a living museum. By nine o'clock, farmers from surrounding hamlets have set up stalls beneath the soportales, their Ourense accents cutting through the morning air. The weekly invasion doubles the village population, yet foreign visitors remain scarce enough that vendors still ask where you're staying and whether you've tried the local cachena beef.

Monastery Territory

San Salvador's baroque façade dominates more than just the main square—it dictates the village's entire rhythm. Founded in the tenth century by Bishop Rosendo, whose remains lie beneath the gilded altar, this Benedictine complex turned the settlement into Galicia's spiritual powerhouse. The present structure, reshaped during the seventeenth-century rebuilding frenzy, shows off every architectural excess the Counter-Reformation could muster: twisted Solomonic columns, ceiling frescoes that ache your neck, and enough gilded wood to furnish a small cathedral. Which, technically, it is.

Access works differently here. Turn up without planning and you'll see the church for free during opening hours, but the real prize—the tiny Mozarabic chapel of San Miguel—remains locked behind the guided tour. These run twice daily in high season, cost €6, and last forty-five minutes. It's worth it. The chapel, barely twelve metres square, represents the only surviving Mozarabic architecture in northern Spain, its horseshoe arches and ribbed vaults transported stone by stone from a long-vanished Visigothic church. Photography inside is forbidden, ostensibly to protect the medieval pigments. The real reason, locals whisper, is to maintain the mystery that keeps visitors paying.

Sunday mass offers a loophole. Attend the 11:30 service and you'll sit in the same chapel, albeit without the museum commentary. The priest's Galician sermon might lose you, but the tenth-century acoustics won't.

Thursday's Takeover

Market day transforms the village into something approaching organised chaos. Stallholders from Ourense city arrive before dawn, their vans blocking the narrow streets that feed into Plaza Mayor. By breakfast time, the square's limited parking has disappeared completely—smart visitors leave vehicles by the sports centre on the southern approach and walk in.

The market itself sprawls beyond the main square, occupying every flat surface downhill towards the Pozo de Belos park. Cheese vendors compete for space with hardware stalls selling agricultural supplies that wouldn't look out of place in a museum. Local women inspect fabric bolts with the concentration of textile scholars, while farmers negotiate prices for castaño de Galicia chestnuts by the kilo. The atmosphere feels more Moroccan souk than Spanish plaza, complete with good-natured haggling and the occasional stubborn mule blocking passage.

Food stalls cluster near the monastery steps. Empanadas gallegas arrive in metal trays, their fillings marked in hurried marker pen: zamburiñas (variegated scallops), raxo (fried pork strips), or the seasonal mushroom mix that appears after autumn rains. Prices hover around €3 per slice—substantial enough for lunch if you're not walking far.

Beyond the Stones

Celanova's medieval core rewards wandering, though the experience demands proper footwear. Cobblestones polished by eight centuries of foot traffic become treacherous when wet, and Galicia's weather changes faster than British rail timetables. The main square offers no covered arcades—when rain arrives, locals duck into Bar Central or the handful of cafés that spill tables onto the stones during fair weather.

The Praza do Millo public laundry pool, fed by a natural spring, provides Instagram gold but comes with etiquette. Elderly women still wash clothes here, and they object to cameras pointed their way. Ask permission first, in Galician if possible: "Podo facer unha foto?" works better than Spanish or English. Most will refuse, but they'll appreciate the courtesy enough to share local gossip about which restaurants overcharge tourists.

Three kilometres uphill, the Castromao hill-fort offers the village's best sunset views. The Iron-Age settlement's stone walls frame a 360-degree panorama across the mountainous border with Portugal. The climb takes forty minutes from the monastery via a poorly signposted track—OS Maps users will recognise the British footpath aesthetic of stiles and muddy sections. Evening picnickers arrive with local wine and queixo tetilla cheese, timing their ascent for the golden hour when the setting sun appears to set the surrounding peaks alight.

What You're Actually Eating

Forget molecular gastronomy. Celanova's restaurants serve the substantial fare that fuelled generations of monks and farmers. Hotel Celanova's Alqvimia restaurant plates the village's most refined version of traditional dishes: their stuffed piquillo peppers with meat filling represent three days' work, the sauce reduced slowly until it clings like velvet. The €18 menu del día includes wine and dessert—reasonable value considering portions that would shame most British gastro-pubs.

A Gaia tapas bar, tucked behind the monastery on Rúa Progreso, specialises in cachena beef. This local min-cow breed, smaller than Aberdeen Angus, produces intensely flavoured meat served simply as steak or chopped into raxo with paprika and garlic. The house wine arrives in ceramic bowls, Galician style—drinkable if unremarkable, and cheaper than bottled water.

Vegetarians face limited options beyond tortilla and salad, though autumn brings mushroom-focused menus that celebrate the forests surrounding the village. A Adega do Iván offers the best selection, their tapas changing daily based on whatever local foragers deliver. October visitors might find níscalos (saffron milk-caps) simply grilled with parsley, while November brings more elaborate preparations with chestnuts and local honey.

The Honest Assessment

Celanova delivers exactly what it promises: an authentic Galician village where tourism hasn't replaced daily life. That authenticity comes with limitations. Accommodation options remain scarce—two hotels, three guesthouses, and a smattering of rural casas rurales within driving distance. The 19:30 restaurant closing time isn't negotiable, and Sunday afternoons see everything shutter until Tuesday morning.

Summer crowds arrive mostly from Madrid and Barcelona, drawn by cooler mountain air and lower prices than coastal Galicia. August's San Rosendo festivities bring processions and free concerts, but also triple normal accommodation rates and traffic jams that turn the village approaches into car parks. Spring and autumn provide better balance: warm enough for evening drinks outside, quiet enough that locals still have time to chat.

The village works best as a base for exploring the wider Terra de Celanova region. Within thirty minutes' drive lie other settlements worth detours: Allariz with its riverside medieval quarter, or Xunqueira de Ambía's Cistercian monastery. But linger too briefly and you'll miss what makes Celanova special—not its monuments, but the rhythm of village life that continues regardless of visitor numbers. Sit long enough in Plaza Mayor, order a second coffee, and someone will inevitably ask where you're from. Answer honestly, and you might find yourself invited to see the monastery's hidden library, or directed to a grandmother's house for homemade empanadas that never appear on any menu.