Vilardevós

The village water trough still runs. Fed by a stone spout carved in 1783, it fills the long washing slab that nobody needs today, yet nobody has removed. On most mornings an elderly neighbour fills plastic jerry-cans here rather than turning on a kitchen tap—habit, superstition, or simply because the water tastes of rain and quartz. Stand still for thirty seconds and you will hear the same sound that carried through the alleys of Vilardevós two centuries ago: water hitting granite, then the hush of oak and pine on the ridge above.

Welcome to the high, scattered municipality that guidebooks forgot. Vilardevós sits on the first ramp of the Sierra de Larouco, 750 m above sea level and only 18 km from the Portuguese border. There is no medieval core to tick off, no single plaza framed by cafés. Instead, five dozen hamlets—Mourazos, Campobecerros, Pazos, A Ira, A Gudiña—string along lanes so narrow that two tractors would negotiate like ships in the night. Granite cottages, hórreo grain stores on stilts, and the occasional cruceiro wayside cross appear, disappear, then re-emerge as the road climbs. The whole place feels accidental, as if someone shook out a pocketful of stone houses and let them land where they would.

Stone that learned to breathe

Local granite is not the pale, tourist-board grey seen on Galicia’s coast. Up here it darkens to gun-metal, absorbing moisture from Atlantic weather systems that stall against the sierra. After rain the walls turn almost black, highlighting the white quartz veins that miners once followed in search of tin. Look closely at barns and you will find grooves cut into door jambs—sharpening scores left by generations of labourers honing scythes before heading to the hay meadows. The architecture is defensive without looking fortified: tiny windows on the north side, corridors set deep inside the stone envelope, slate roofs angled to shrug off sudden snow. Even the hórreos sit higher off the ground than their coastal cousins, giving rats a longer sprint and allowing winter air to circulate underneath stored chestnuts and rye.

A short, stiff walk links three parishes in under four kilometres. Start at the nineteenth-century parish church of San Salvador in Vilardevós itself—note the Romanesque font inside, relocated from a now-ruined earlier building—then follow the paved lane signposted to Mourazos. After 500 m the tarmac gives way to a stone track where moss fills the cart ruts. Cross the stone bridge (no parapet, single slab, 17th century) and you arrive at a cluster of six houses, one still inhabited by a woman who sells eggs from a fridge plugged in the porch. She will not offer a receipt, but she will tell you the price—currently €2.40 for six, cheaper than the supermarket in Verín and twice as yellow in the pan.

Sierra air that smells of apples and pine resin

Beyond the last barn the path climbs through sweet-chestnut coppice to an altitude of 950 m. In October the forest floor becomes a free supermarket: boletus, parasol mushrooms, and the prized cepes that locals sell to middlemen from Ourense. Picking is tolerated if you ask first and carry no more than a modest basket; commercial sacks are frowned upon and may earn a lecture in rapid Galician. The track eventually breaks out onto a firebreak where heather replaces trees and the view opens north across the valley of the Tâmega. Portugal lies 12 km away as the crow flies, but the river gorge adds another hour by road. On clear days you can spot the white turbines of a wind farm on the Portuguese ridge—foreign giants from this side of the line.

Weather changes fast. A morning of bright sunshine can collapse into drifting cloud by lunchtime; take a waterproof even if the sky looks innocent. In winter the XCIC provincial road is gritted, but side routes become glassy. Unless you carry snow chains, park at the bottom and walk the final ascent. Temperature swings are brutal: a May day can begin at 4 °C and hit 24 °C by 15:00, so layer rather than relying on a single thick coat. The compensation is air so clean it tastes faintly of apples from the high orchards and of pine resin warmed by sun.

When the village throws a party

Fiestas are hyper-local. Each parish celebrates its patron saint with a mass followed by a communal meal under canvas; dates bounce around the calendar but most cluster between mid-July and early September. If you arrive unannounced you will still be fed—Galicians operate an open-door policy during fiestas—but bring a bottle of something decent (Ribeiro white from the valley below costs around €7 and slips down well with grilled pork). The Entroido carnival, held in February, is smaller and more domestic than the masked extravaganza in nearby Verín. Expect home-made costumes, a bonfire of old Christmas trees, and enough queimada (flamed aguardiente infused with herbs) to make the walk back to your guesthouse feel shorter than it really is.

Beds, bread and how to get here

Accommodation is thin on the ground. The municipality has one small hotel, Casa do Bispo, in a converted bishop’s residence on the edge of Vilardevós (doubles from €70, including breakfast of fresh bread, local honey and the soft cheese tetilla). Five rural houses are scattered through the parishes; owners prefer email bookings made a week ahead rather than same-night phone calls. There is no campsite, but wild camping is tolerated above the tree line if you pitch late, strike early and leave no trace.

Public transport reaches the edge but not the centre. Monbus runs twice daily from Ourense to A Gudiña, 8 km away; from there you need a taxi (€12) or a pre-booked transfer. Hiring a car in Santiago or Ourense is simpler and gives flexibility for exploring the switchback roads. Fill the tank in Verín—village pumps close at 20:00 and may be shut for the farmer’s siesta between 13:30 and 16:30.

Honest farewell

Vilardevós does not deliver instant spectacle. Come expecting a polished heritage trail and you will leave within an hour, slightly baffled. Treat it as a place to slow the pulse, walk stone paths that smell of damp earth, and listen to a language that predates Latin, and the municipality starts to make sense. The real souvenir is intangible: the moment when granite walls, forest silence and mountain light lock together in memory more vivid than any postcard. You will not find a gift shop selling that, but it travels home lighter than pottery and lasts longer than a bottle of orujo.