Laza

The first clue that Laza refuses to play the Spanish-village cliché is the sound of cowbells in February. They clank down the cobbles at dawn, fastened to men in sheepskins and wooden masks who march through 3 °C drizzle cracking inflated pig bladders. No one here calls it “quaint”. They call it Entroido, and if you arrive unprepared you will leave reeking of river mud and wondering why your waterproof jacket now carries hoof-shaped bruises.

Laza sits 1,100 m up the southern shoulder of Galicia’s San Mamede range, 55 km east of Ourense. The railway ends in the valley; from there a switch-back mountain road climbs through sweet-chestnut woods until the stone houses appear, rooflines crooked from centuries of snow load. Population hovers around 1,200, but the number feels generous on a weekday in March when the only movement is wood-smoke and a farmer shifting hay with a tractor older than most visitors.

Stone, slope and silence

The village centre is three streets wide. Start at the sixteenth-century church of San Xoán, ignore the locked façade, and simply walk uphill. Granite doorways carry worn coats of arms—wolves, towers, crossed keys—yet the houses are still lived-in: satellite dishes bolted beside carved balconies, bright PVC windows set into medieval walls. Nothing is staged; the council hasn’t discovered heritage paint charts. That authenticity is addictive, but it also means there are no souvenir shops, no boutique hotels, and only two places serving coffee outside festival week.

Drop down any alley that smells of chimney smoke and you reach agricultural Laza within two minutes. Horreos—raised stone granaries—balance on stilts beside vegetable plots. A public fountain dated 1792 still runs; locals fill plastic jerry-cans while talking in Galician so soft it sounds like Portuguese with the vowels stretched. Walk fifteen minutes east and the last cottage gives way to oak scrub and broom. From here a lattice of old mule paths links hamlets whose names—Vilatuxe, A Igrexa—rarely appear on English-language maps. The gradients are honest: allow forty minutes for what the topo map swears is two kilometres, and carry water; bars do not exist on the hillside.

Winter chaos, summer calm

Entroido turns the volume to eleven. For three Sundays before Lent the village doubles in population. The star attraction, the peliqueiro, wears a jacket sewn from multicoloured ribbons, a waist-length devil mask and a belt of heavy cowbells. He runs. Everyone else runs faster. Bystanders are fair game for the bladder whip; cameras do not grant immunity. On the middle Sunday the farrapada begins when two truckloads of mud-soaked rags are dumped in the main square. An hour later participants resemble walking compost heaps. British visitors who assume European carnivals are polite masked balls have been reduced to tears—partly from laughter, partly from bruises.

Book accommodation eleven months ahead or sleep in Ourense and drive up for the day. Rooms cost €80–€120, cash only, and the single ATM empties by Saturday lunchtime. Mobile signal collapses under the crowd; agree meeting points in advance. Bring old clothes, wellies and a thick skin.

August could not be more different. Fiesta patronales means brass bands at midnight and bumper cars in the car park, but numbers are modest and the mountain air cools to 14 °C by two in the morning. Emigrants return from Switzerland and Madrid; elderly men play mus (a Basque card game) on café tables while teenagers flirt over Estrella Galicia. It feels like a family reunion you’ve accidentally been invited to.

Eating between the seasons

Galician cuisine is built for weather that ignores calendar conventions. Start with pulpo a feira—octopus simmered in a copper cauldron, snipped with scissors, dressed in olive oil and smoked paprika. The texture surprises Brits expecting rubber: properly timed it eats like monkfish. Lacón con grelos, pork shoulder stewed with turnip tops, tastes exactly what Hampshire would invent if it had Galician winters. Vegetarians should ask for caldo gallego minus the chorizo: potatoes, greens and white beans still deliver rib-sticking comfort.

House wine comes in cuncas, shallow ceramic bowls that slop if you gesture too wildly; at €1.20 a refill it rarely matters. The local Ribeiro white is light, slightly acidic, ideal with seafood. Pudding is optional because the almond-heavy tarta de Santiago is both gluten-free and enormous. The best tables are at Restaurante Picota on Rúa do Medio—look for the oak-burning grill visible through the window. A three-course lunch menu costs €14 mid-week; weekends add €3 and you must queue with the Sunday-after-Mass crowd.

Getting here, staying sane

High-speed trains reach Ourense from Madrid in four hours; from London it’s a morning flight to Barajas, a metro ride across the capital and the afternoon train. Hire cars wait outside Ourense-San Francisco station; reserve automatics early because most fleets are manuals. The A-52 motorway is fast and dull; turn off at exit 254 for the OU-920 and the climb begins. In winter carry snow chains—Galician snow is wet, sudden and rarely forecast accurately.

Laza’s albergue municipal offers 24 dorm beds for Camino Sanabrés walkers at €8; kitchen included but no bedding. The nearest hotel is in Alberguería, 18 km back towards the motorway, so many visitors base themselves in Verín (25 min drive) where a three-star double runs €65. Buses connect Verín and Laza twice daily except Sundays when the service rests like everything else.

Cash remains king. The village has two ATMs; both refused international cards during carnival 2023. Bars close at 10 pm sharp unless the owner feels chatty; plan dinner early or stock up at the Día supermarket in Verín. English is thin on the ground—download Spanish or, better, Galician phrases. Attempting “bos días” earns warmer smiles than flawless Castilian.

Leave the checklist at home

Laza will not deliver souvenir magnets, flamenco shows or Moorish castles. What it offers instead is a place where Spain’s rural engine still idles—noisy, muddy, occasionally incomprehensible, but undeniably alive. Turn up with sturdy shoes, a weatherproof sense of humour and a willingness to be the only foreigner in the bar. You might depart with bruised shins, a pocketful of almond tart and the disconcerting realisation that somewhere between the stone alleys and the chestnut woods you forgot to check your phone for two whole days.