Entering Spain’s hidden corner

The seven-hour flight from Toronto to Porto, Portugal, is seamless. From there, I join four fellow travel writers on a bus bound for Spain, travelling 200 km north across the mighty River Mino and into the hills of Ourense Province in Galicia. 

As our bus winds its way up ever-narrower roads flanked by ancient groves of oak, fern, cork, and chestnut trees, we gradually ascend to the crest of a hill. With every turn, my excitement grows. When we finally arrive at the breathtaking Monasterio de Santo Estevo de Ribas de Sil, I can’t help but smile. A deep sense of warmth and peace washes over me as I take in the monastery, perched dramatically in the hills with a stunning view of the River Sil canyon unfolding below.

Built between the 12th and 18th centuries, the Benedictine monastery still boasts three stunning cloisters and a Cathedral. However, in 1836, the structure was abandoned when the Spanish government expropriated monasteries and convents, and turfed out the monks and nuns. In 1923, it was declared a national monument of interest, restored, and converted into the Parador de Santo Estevo in 2005.

“Here, there is a special energy, breathe it in and enjoy,” says Maria Chamadoira, a Gallega and our expert guide. “The smells and sounds of nature soften our hearts. This is the hidden Spain.”

Galicians regard the forest as a mystical place. Oak groves, called fragas, are considered sacred, reflecting an ancient Celtic tradition. But Chamadoira warns us to be careful at night: While no bears roam the forest, wild boars do. And on foggy nights, locals say the Santa Compaña (Galician for Holy Companion) may appear – a ghostly procession of unsettled souls said to lurk in the dark.

Adega Algueira’s garrulous manager, Suso Soniera,  feigns disappointment in our feeble appetites. “Madre Mia. Nobody has eaten anything. I even gave you smaller portions,” he says. “We Galicians love to eat. We are known for our gastronomy. But it’s not just the food, it’s the way we live. I live on a farm with my own sheep and lambs and rabbits and plant my own garden.”

Galicians have a deep love for fish (especially cod and hake), and an even greater passion for seafood. Goose barnacles, oysters, squid, clams and scallops baked in their shells with ham and onion all feature prominently on local menus. Mussels are farmed on ropes suspended from wooden rafts that float in estuaries, gently swaying beneath the surface until harvest. And, of course, pulpo a la Gallega, boiled octopus served with olive oil, salt and paprika. The passion for this dish has even spawned a saying which loosely translates as: Galicians love octopus so much, they have the head of an octopus.

Suso brings out flan, a caramel custard, for dessert, and orujo, a pomace brandy.

Worried I will explode if I eat another morsel, like Mr. Creosote in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, I politely decline. Suso laughs and invites us to come again when our stomachs are empty.

We take a private boat for the half-hour journey to the North Island, where the stunning Playa de Rodas awaits: turquoise water, fine sand with bits of ancient quartz that glint in the sun and dunes with pines towering beyond.

With no cars, hotels, or fancy yachts, Cies feels like a desert island, complete with a back story of treasure buried at sea by the legendary Sir Francis Drake, who once hid out in the archipelago’s secluded coves.

This relatively unknown gem may have remained under the radar, except for a 2015 column published by The Guardian, which declared Playa de Rodas one of the top 10 beaches in the world. While Spaniards are proud of this designation, it has inevitably led to over-tourism.

In 2017, the Spanish National Park authority introduced strict regulations to protect the park. Today, only 1,800 visitors are permitted a day, from May 15 to Sept. 15. After that, the cap falls to 450. Visitors need a QR code from the regional government’s website and must follow strict rules: no fires, loud parties, fishing, or leaving garbage behind.

“We are not a beach, we are a National Park,” says Pablo Marino Lustres, who runs a local travel agency. “We encourage people to visit in the off-season instead of just in summer. This is a treasure, and we must protect it.”

This approach seems to be working. While some visitors frolic on Rodas Beach, which links the Northern Island to the Middle Island, we see few people on the scenic footpath that leads to Pedra da Campa in the interior. After a climb through pine forests, we arrive at a stunning hilltop for a panoramic view of the cliffs plunging into the Atlantic Ocean, the islands stretching out in the sea, and yellow-legged seagulls circling above, furiously guarding their nests.

On the walk back, I take a quick plunge in Rodas Beach, which sits at about 18 degrees Celsius (cool for locals but not for a Canadian!). Already, I am plotting my next visit.