Vilariño de Conso

The church bell in Vilarino de Conso strikes noon at a noticeably slower tempo than coastal Galicia. At 900 metres above sea level, sound travels differently through thin mountain air, and the village's 500 souls have learned to measure time by frost patterns rather than tide tables. This is Spain's roof, not its beach towel.

Slate, Chestnuts and the Long View

Every building wears the same dark waistcoat: slabs of local slate that turn anthracite when it rains. The stone isn't ornamental; it's ballast against winters that can start in October and linger until May. Walk the single main street and you'll pass houses built shoulder-to-shoulder, their wooden balconies painted the colour of ox blood—a flash of warmth against the monochrome. Between roofs, chestnut trees outnumber satellite dishes by roughly twenty to one. In late October their branches bang together like wet planks, releasing glossy nuts that villagers collect in wicker baskets and sell for €3 a kilo from front-door tables.

The geography explains the architecture. Vilarino sits in a natural bowl where three valleys meet; cold air pools here at night, so walls are a metre thick and windows shrink to postage stamps. Even in July, when Santiago de Compostela swelters at 28 °C, you might wake to 12 °C mist pressing against the glass. Pack accordingly—layers beat one heavy coat, because the sun, when it appears, is fierce.

Walking Tracks That Demand Respect

The PR-G 118 'Ruta dos Soutos' begins 300 metres past the town hall, marked by a granite post easy to miss if you're adjusting to the thin air. The loop climbs 400 metres through abandoned chestnut terraces, then drops into the river Conso's shaded gorge. Official time: 3 hours 45 minutes. Real time for British legs used to the Cotswolds: five hours, including photo stops and a muttered oath when the path turns into a stream after rain. Mobile coverage vanishes after the first kilometre; download the track before you leave the village bar's Wi-Fi.

For something gentler, drive five kilometres up the OU-533 towards A Rúa, park at the mirador, and follow the signposted 45-minute stroll to the deer-viewing hide. Dawn and dusk offer the best chance of spotting roe deer or the feral goats whose cloven hooves click on slate outcrops like tap shoes. Bring binoculars and patience; the animals have 3,000 hectares of O Invernadeiro Natural Park to disappear into, and they know how to use it.

Access to the park itself is stricter than a National Trust property on a bank holiday. You must book a guided visit at least 48 hours ahead (€10, July–September only; phone +34 988 282 941). Turn up unannounced and the ranger will turn you away—no exceptions, even if you've driven two hours from Ourense.

Food Meant to Offset Altitude

Galician cuisine usually conjures images of octopus and Albariño wine. Here, 100 kilometres from the Atlantic, the menu leans inland. Caldo gallego arrives in soup bowls the size of plant pots: potatoes, turnip greens and chunks of pork belly that float like small icebergs. It's bland by design—mountain stomachs prefer comfort to fireworks. Follow it with queso de tetilla, a soft cow's-milk cheese shaped like a breast and tasting of meadow butter. The local honey, sold in repurposed chestnut-syrup jars, carries a faint bitterness that pairs surprisingly well with robust red wine from nearby Valdeorras.

The two village bars—O Conso and A Cabana—both serve grilled trout caught in the Xabrina tributary. Ask for it 'ao estilo do pobo' and you'll receive a whole fish, head on, brushed only with lemon and olive oil. Price: €12, including chips that arrive floppy and unapologetic, the way Galicians like them. Vegetarians should request 'crepes de castaña' in autumn: chestnut-flour pancakes drizzled with the same honey. They won't be on the printed menu; the owners cook them if asked nicely and if the batter hasn't sold out by 3 pm.

What the Brochures Leave Out

Public transport ends at A Rúa, 19 kilometres down the valley. From there, a Monday-only bus reaches Vilarino at 14:15 and leaves again at 06:30 Tuesday—fine for insomniacs, useless for everyone else. Hire a car in Ourense or Verín; the final 40 minutes on the OU-533 twist through corkscrew bends where stone walls brush both wing mirrors. Meeting a timber lorry head-on is a test of reverse-gear nerve.

Winter visits require snow tyres from November onwards. The council clears the main road, but side streets turn into toboggan runs. In February 2022, the village was cut off for three days; locals simply walked to the bakery by tractor-rut. Summer brings the opposite problem: wildfire risk. Barbecues are banned outside designated zones, and the bomberos patrol with the grim efficiency of East Sussex rangers during a drought.

The altitude also plays tricks on beer. Order a caña and the head subsides faster than at sea level;二氧化碳 bubbles behave strangely when atmospheric pressure drops. Stick to wine or, safer still, the local orujo de hierbas—an herbal fire-water that tastes like alcoholic cough medicine and performs the same warming function.

Leaving Without a Fridge Magnet

Souvenir options are thin. The bakery sells chestnut flour in plain paper bags, the label handwritten in Biro. It weighs a kilo, costs €4, and fits awkwardly into carry-on luggage, but makes superior brownies back home. Alternatively, buy nothing and simply remember the acoustics: how church bells echo across valleys that once echoed with wolves, how slate roofs click as they cool at sunset, how the air smells of moss and woodsmoke even in July.

Drive away in third gear; the road drops 600 metres before the first straight. In the rear-view mirror, Vilarino de Conso shrinks to a dark scar on the hillside, indistinguishable from the mountain that hosts it. That's the point. It was never trying to be anything else.