Toques

The road to Toques climbs past the 400-metre contour before the council boundary sign appears, half-swallowed by ivy. This is mountain country masquerading as farmland: chestnut woods give way to sudden bald hilltops where wind farms turn above stone-walled pastures. At 515 metres above sea level, the village proper sits high enough for Atlantic weather to arrive sideways, and for summer evenings to cool fast enough that locals keep fleece jackets on the back of kitchen chairs even in July.

Stone, Water and the Art of Looking Sideways

Forget the idea of a postcard centre. Toques is a scatter of parishes—Lama, Arca, Corneda, Sete—linked by lanes so narrow that two cars meeting means someone has to reverse to the last passing place. The council’s 158 km² contain fewer than five thousand souls, and the architecture follows the same low-density rhythm. Granite churches appear every few kilometres, each with its modest Romanesque or Baroque touch, but the real markers are humbler: a hórreo on stone stilts, a cruceiro where paths cross, a mill-race still damp even in August.

Water is never far away. The Pambre and its tributaries have cut shallow valleys where moss covers everything that stands still for more than a week. Short footpaths—rarely signed, sometimes merely the width of a wheel-rut—drop to ruined mills whose grindstones lie cracked in the stream. After heavy rain the clay banks soften; wellies beat walking boots here. The reward is a micro-climate of ferns and constant birdsong that feels miles from the potato fields above.

Driving between these pockets demands patience. Distances read like typos on the map—1.8 km, 2.4 km—yet each bend presents a photographic brake: granite slabs piled higher than a tractor, a cow scratching its neck on a wayside shrine, fog peeling off a ridge like cotton wool. Plan on 25 km/h average and no one will honk. The single petrol pump in Sete closes for siesta; fill up in Melide before you turn off the N-547.

Walking Without a Checklist

The council has begun way-marking short loops, but the network is patchy. Better to borrow logic from the livestock: if the path is hoof-polished, it goes somewhere. A reliable starter is the 5 km lane between Lama and Corneda churches, mostly on tarmac so quiet that grass grows down the middle. Park beside the stone trough in Lama (coordinates handy for the sat-nav: 42.933, -8.083) and head south. The track crests a saddle where views open west to the Montes do Invernadeiro, then dips under chestnuts whose autumn crop is fair game if you fancy carrying a pocketknife.

Those wanting elevation should continue on the gravel track signed “Monte Buxel” from the OU-212. The climb is 220 m over 2 km, ending at an abandoned fire-watch hut. Galicia’s highest peaks sit farther east, yet on a clear day the Atlantic glints 55 km away, proof of how abruptly the land falls towards the coast. Winter can bring a dusting of snow above 600 m; carry traction mats December–February because the grit lorons reach these lanes last.

A word on signage: yellow-and-white stripes appear and vanish. Locals often reroute paths across their land without telling the cartographer. If a gate sports a scrap of fertiliser-bag plastic, it means “shut after you,” not “keep out.” Wire loops lift off gateposts; leave everything as found and no one minds.

When the Weather Makes the Plan

Spring arrives late at this altitude. Gorse flowers in April, a month after the coast, and night frosts can nip until early May. The pay-off is outrageous green and orchids along the tracks. By contrast, July and August turn the high meadows biscuit-colour and bring out fiestas in each parish: verbena dances under strings of coloured bulbs, grilled pork served on enamel plates for €8, and queimada (flamed aguardiente) at midnight. Accommodation within the municipality amounts to two rural houses—Casa da Escada and Casa do Río—both booked solid during the Melide “Festa do Pulpo” second weekend in August. Plan six months ahead or stay in Arzúa, 18 minutes down the motorway, where the pilgrims’ hostels have spare beds when the camino is quiet.

Autumn is the photographers’ season. Morning fog pools in the valleys until sun-up, leaving hilltop villages floating like islands. Mushroom hunters appear with wicker baskets and pocket knives; the chanterelle spots are family secrets, so resist following. October still reaches 18 °C at midday, but pack a jacket for the wind that picks up after 4 pm. Winter is undramatic yet demanding: daylight shrinks to nine hours, sleet closes the higher by-roads, and the bars in Sete and Corneda keep shorter hours. Still, the stone walls look charcoal-black when wet, and you might have the mill trails to yourself—worth it if you own a decent waterproof.

Eating and the Art of Timing

Forget tasting menus. The single restaurant, O Astronómico in Arca, opens Friday to Sunday only and serves cocido (hearty stew) for €12 including wine. Mid-week you rely on bar snacks: tortilla squares, pimientos de Padrón, bread with local Arzúa-Ulloa cheese that tastes like a milder Caerphilly. Coffee comes in small glasses; ask for “café con leche” if you need the British-sized mug. Vegetarians should specify “sin jamón” even when ordering spinach, and bring emergency almonds—rural Galicia still regards ham as a seasoning.

Buy supplies in Melide before you drive up: the tiny grocers in Toques close for lunch 2–4 pm and all day Sunday. If you fancy cooking, the Friday open-air market in Melide sells fist-sized onions and greens with the soil still on them. Fishermen from the ría deliver crates of mussels on ice; a kilo costs €4 and keeps cold in the boot for the drive back to your cottage.

Getting It Wrong, Then Right

British visitors usually arrive with one of two mistakes tucked into the sat-nav. The first is trusting the shortest route: Google sometimes sends hatchbacks up a concrete track from Ourense province that dissolves into tractor ruts. Approach instead from the AP-53 exit at Sobrado, then follow the OU-212 through Boimorto—proper asphalt all the way. The second error is assuming a circular walk will take the predicted hour. Add 50 % for photo stops, gate wrestling, and the moment you realise the path has turned into someone’s vegetable plot. Carry the downloaded map; mobile signal vanishes in every valley.

Car hire from Santiago airport runs about £90 for three days in low season; petrol is roughly £1.35 a litre, cheaper than the motorway services but still a shock after the last UK fill-up. If you prefer public transport, Monbus runs twice daily from Santiago to Melide (55 min, €6.50), and a local taxi for the final 14 km costs a fixed €22—book the return journey or risk a very long walk.

Leaving Without Tick Boxes

Toques will not hand you a highlight reel. No cathedral spire dominates, no river beach tempts a swim; even the best viewpoint has only a wooden bench and a litter bin. What it offers is the slow accretion of details: the way granite walls turn rose-coloured at dusk, the sudden smell of eucalyptus after rain, a farmer waving you through a field gate because his dog is loose and he trusts you to shut it. Spend a day here and you might drive away thinking you saw very little. A week later the quiet textures surface in memory, and you realise the village never aimed to impress—only to endure.