asturias

As another wave washed over me and threw me off direction I thought back to what Lucas had been saying: “It’s the easiest of the travesías, it’s hard to get lost.” He had paused a second and then added, “It’s also the hardest”

In January this year I joined Ovimaster, the masters swimming club in Oviedo (Masters swimming is for swimmers who are no longer in university/competition but who still enjoy swimming clubs and meets). I didn’t do any of the indoor competitions but I chatted to the others about open water swimming. In Asturias between the end of June and the end of August there are open water events pretty much every weekend. Some are local affairs, with a handful of competitors, others are international, like Navia, where the whole town turns out and the 500 swimmers parade in the morning, part of the local fiesta. There are river swims (descents and ascents (against the current)) and sea swims (travesías). There are short swims of 800m and long ones up to 8km (although there are few takers, and the weather has to cooperate). The travesía del Musel had been described as the purest of the sea swims, because it had the most open of open water sections. The route leaves the industrial Musel port from inside the harbour, which is usually used by tankers, ferrys, cruise ships and big cargo vessels. Then as you leave the harbour you turn right, following the breakwater until that takes another right and heads inland while you strike out across the bay to the calmer waters of the leisure port 2km distant.

I hadn’t done any open water swimming but it sounded like a challenge I would enjoy. I started with a 1500m race in Gijón, along San Lorenzo beach, and then a 5000m river swim in Navia. And lots of laps in the pool.

We registered at the finish line, then stripped down to whatever swimwear we favoured. Vaseline or grease was applied liberally (not goose fat, and not for warmth, this was to stop chafing) before 100 oiled swimmers walked down to two waiting buses ready to take us to the start.

We clambered over slippy breakwater blocks and sat half in and half out of the water waiting for the start. Some people swam lazy warm-up strokes. The woman next to me slipped and head butted my shoulder before apologising profusely and laughing. People started shouting for the race to start. I don’t know what we were waiting for but we spent 15 minutes in the water becoming increasingly impatient. Then we were told to get in and line up. This took a frustratingly long time. I spotted Carmen, from Ovimaster, who would probably swim a similar time to me, and we nodded at each other, we would stick together, we said. If we could.

And then we were off, and it was the usual press of bodies and jumble of strokes until the faster swimmers had gone and there was more space for the rest of us. Inside the harbour walls there weren’t too many waves, although I was out on the edge of the group nearer the middle of the harbour and the swell was noticeable. 700m or so to the first turn, out of the harbour. It was relatively easy to navigate, the harbour wall and the big cranes on the right, but even so, I zigzagged a bit and had to correct myself time and again, sighting every four breaths or so.

It was a different story as we neared the corner. The sea swell was much more pronounced, sighting was much harder, I struggled to time it to match the crests of the waves but they seemed to be coming from all directions. It felt like it took forever to make the turn and once I did, the swell got even bigger. In all probability it was less than 1m but it was intimidating. I swallowed a fair amount of water but I concentrated on breathing and sighting and kept going. Every now and again I would see one of the support kayaks but not the other swimmers. I realised someone was shouting at me and took a couple of breast strokes to listen to the kayaker telling me to head more to the right. I said thanks and reoriented myself and was off once again. Someone appeared suddenly next to me (the water was clear, but you couldn’t see anything more than a couple of metres away because of the turbulent surface), Carmen. We swam together for a minute before more waves pushed us in different directions. I tried to guess how long we had been swimming. The breakwater was still to the right, so I was still less than halfway. That was a bit unsettling, because I felt tired from battling the waves. I kept trying to breathe at the top of the swell and it was getting better but the breakwater was refusing to recede into the distance.

Another kayaker shouted and I reoriented myself, off in the distance I could see the tallest building in the Gijón skyline, the one everyone said to aim for. I continued, a kayak hit me and the kayakers apologised profusely, no problem I said and kept on. Every so often I had to lift up my steamed up goggles to make sure I wasn’t heading for Ireland. The breakwater finally disappeared from my view to the right, I could see the shipyards next to Arbayal beach in the distance. I kept on trying to keep close enough to the kayaks so I didn’t have to change direction too much.

On the east side of the bay the waves eased a little and the swimming was easier. All of a sudden I could see the big green lighthouse which marked the entrance to the harbour. Rain started to fall heavily, which felt quite nice. A man in a white launch yelled for me to head right, I was going towards the breakwater rather than the harbour entrance. I felt good, I was going to finish. As I reached the harbour wall and swam between it and the lighthouse I could hear a couple of people cheering, I thought it was Luciano (the president of Ovimaster) but couldn’t be sure, not being able to see much.

Once in the harbour there was just 500m to go, in flat calm water, which feltlike a luxury. I swam past an enormous catamaran and reached the jetty where patient helpers told me to come out on all fours because the concrete was slippery. They reached a hand out and helped me to my unsteady feet. Knackered. I walked up the jetty, kissed Liz and enjoyed the feeling of having accomplished something difficult. Everyone agreed that it had been difficult, rough swimming. It took me an hour and twenty six minutes, which is the longest I have swum for.

Lucas came in five minutes ahead of me. He’s sixty seven.

“Can you invigilate an exam in Pamplona?”

I said yes, thinking of San Fermín and bulls and historic cities and Navarran wine and that kind of thing.

The reality, as ever, was a little different. Everardo and I left Oviedo on the Friday evening after our last classes (so once we’d got the car sorted and such that meant 8pm). There are two choices to get to Pamplona according to google maps, South via León and Burgos, or along the coast to Bilbao and then inland. We plumped for the coast road. The sun sank lower and turned everything golden as we figured out the limiter on the car (don’t want to go over 110km per hour, thanks to the new speed limits and the police being all vigilant and all).

Eve said there might be some traffic but there was nothing, well, nothing compared to the M62. We drove until the car asked for fuel, and pulled off at the first garage… lights on, no one about. So on to the next, hoping it was within 25km which, thankfully, it was.

At the side of the garage there was a Meson, which is basically a restaurant, but one which doesn’t have any pretensions. I was a paper tablecloth kind of place. We didn’t really have time to hang around so we ordered a plate of chorizo, egg and chips each. It was bloomin’ lovely. Sugary coffee and a coke to keep alert and off we went again.

From Bilbao south, the roads get a little trickier to navigate, signs appear just yards before the junction, they’re poorly lit and they don’t always point you towards the bigger cities (I had in my head that we’d follow Santander – Bilbao – Pamplona, but the signs alternated between Pamplona and Vizcaya. Eve is not the worlds best navigator so we had to be a bit careful). Still, at one thirty we pulled into the car park behind the hotel and checked in.

After what seemed like a criminally short time we were up and out. Just 5km to the exam site. But in this part of Pamplona they’re building a lot of streets and there are neither houses nor street signs to help you. There are, however, a lot of roundabouts. Take the fifth exit, according to Google maps, onto Calle Juan Pablo II… oops, there are only three exits, and no street names. It took us forty minutes to find the damn place.

The exam itself is easy to invigilate. Hand out the exams while reading from the script (it’s an american exam) then watch and make sure there’s no shenanigans. For four hours.

Then pack up and head back to Oviedo. This time via Burgos. Total distance 999km. Six hours each way.

We’ve got another one to do next week.

En castellano It wasn’t going exactly to plan.

We had left the coach, twelve hardy souls who were planning on doing Torrecerredo, at Sotres (880m), but the lowish cloud and the forecast scuppered the original idea of going up to the refugio Urriellu via the path to the South East and instead we opted to go the normal route via Pandébano (1212m) and past the collado vallejo (1540m). The weather was misty and drizzly and generally not the most pleasant but it eased off and we dried out a little, then on the last half hour pull up to the refugio (1953m) it came down again with a wet vengeance. We arrived at the refugio earlier than expected, wet through and dispirited.

After a few hours of sitting and waiting (and chatting and walking round keeping warm) it was time to eat and that raised spirits. The refugio has a capacity of about a hundred but given the poor conditions there was just us, a group of about thirty from Madrid and a smattering of other walkers and climbers. The food was okay, thin noodle soup followed by stewed lentils and then meatballs, when the pudding of fruit salad (can you call it a fruit salad if it’s just peaches and pears? I’m not sure) Ignacio commented that he hadn’t needed his fork, it was spoon spoon spoon then little spoon. There’s not much to do in these huts after dinner so we retired to the dormitory and slept.

Dawn had actually brought the sun, or at least clear skies and after a less than hearty breakfast (biscuits, melba toast, butter, jam, cocoa) we set off up the Brecha de los Cazadores (hunter’s gap) (2300m or so), and on to the Jou de Cerredo (2400m or so).

The path is pretty well marked until you leave the normal hut-to-hut path and head for Torre Cerredo, then it’s a bit thinner, and you have to cross a few slabs. These would normally be no problem, but the previous night’s rain, combined with the freezing overnight temperatures meant that a lot of the rocks were coated with ice and were a mite slippy. A couple of the slabs were crossed entertainingly high, say, 20m above a rocky terrace. It’s a good job it’s grippy Spanish limestone and not the polished English stuff.

We reached the base of the peak and agreed that the ice would make the ascent too dangerous (it’s a proper scramble, and you have to come down the same way). So we sat there and basked in the sun and had Eccles cakes (well Liz and I did, blimey they’re good, I wonder if we could introduce them here). A few people came down from the peak and reported that they hadn’t been able to go up because of the ice. So the right decision.

That just left the down. We descended steep paths to the refugio de los Cabrones (2060m) where we refilled water bottles and had a little peek at the cute 28 place hut, then a bit of a climb (more slabs, some cables, some old tatty rope in some parts) and then a long stoney path down through cloud to the Majada Amuesa (1386m). A majada is a high meadow, there were no cows though, only  vultures swooping and landing. Then a punishing descent over mud covered slippy rocks to Bulnes (647m) during which we were just thinking of a cold beer in one of the bars there. All that remained was the hour’s walk down from Bulnes to Poncebos (220m) to complete a long day.

No pasaba según lo planeado.

Habíamos bajado del autobús en la curvona de Sotres (880m) , doce fuertes quien pensaban en hacer el Torrecerredo pero las nubes bajas y el pronostico echó por tierra la idea de subir hasta el refugio de Urriellu por el camino del sureste y en su lugar elegimos a ir por el camino normal por Pandébano (1212m) y por el collado Vallejo (1540m). Hacía niebla con orbayu, un tiempo desagradable pero lo peor pasó y secamos un poco. Después, durante la ultima media hora subiendo hasta el refugio (1953m) llovió de nuevo de verdad. Llegamos al refugio mas temprano que esperábamos, empapados y desanimados.

Después de unas horas de sentarse y esperar (y charlar y pasearnos de un lado a otro para calentarnos) llegó la hora de cenar que nos animó. El refugio tiene la capacidad para alrededor de cien pero en tan malo tiempo había nosotros, un grupo de madrileños y unos pocos escaladores y excursionistas. La cena fue regular, una sopa de fideos, lentejas y después albóndigas, cuando llegó el postre de ensalada de frutas (no sé si es una ensalada de frutas si contiene solo peras y melocotones) Ignacio comento que no había usado el tenedor, sopa con cuchara, primer plato con cuchara, segundo, cuchara, postre, cucharita. No hay mucho para hacer en los refugios así que nos retiramos y nos acostamos.

Amaneció con sol, o por lo menos un cielo despejado entonces después un desayuno ligero (bizcochos, pan tostado, mantequilla, mermelada, colacao) salimos hacia la Brecha de los Cazadores (2300m más o menos) y después hasta el jou de Cerredo (2400m más o menos).

El camino es bien marcado hasta que sales del camino normal entre refugios y tiras para el Torre Cerredo, en este caso queda mas estrecho y tienes que cruzar por unas losas, normalmente no causarían ningún problema, pero después la lluvia y la temperatura baja de la noche anterior muchas de las rocas quedaban cubierta de hielo y resbaladizas. Cruzamos unas lozas con una altura entretenida, 20m encima de una terraza rocosa. Menos mal que es caliza española con adherencia no la inglesa pulida.

Llegamos al base del pico y decidimos que el hielo significó que la escalada sería demasiada peligrosa (hay que trepar, y tienes que bajar por la misma vía), así que nos sentimos y disfrutamos el sol, comimos “Eccles cakes” (un pastelito Inglés) (pues por lo menos Liz y yo comimos así, son buenos, me pregunto si podríamos introdulirlos aquí). Unas personas bajaban y nos dijeron que no habían sido capaz de subir por el hielo, entonces fue la decisión correcta.

Solo nos quedaba la bajada. Bajamos por senderos empinados hasta el refugio de los Cabrones (2060m) donde las cargamos las cantimploras y echamos una miradita al refugio guapo con solo 28 plazas, después, una subida (más losas, unos cables, una cuerda muy antigua y estropeada) y luego un sendero pedregoso tras las nubes hasta la Majada Amuesa(1386m). Luego un descenso duro por rocas que estuvieron cubiertas de barro hasta Bulnes (647m), durante que pensábamos solo de unas cervezas bien frías en un bar allí. Lo único que nos quedó fue el camino de una hora desde Bulnes hasta Poncebos (220m) para acabar un día largo.

En castellano As we strolled through the narrow back alleys of Cudillero we could hear the morning mass on telly through open windows. José Ángel timed it wrong and passed an old boy in his front garden just as the mass got to the sign of the peace so I had to wait while he shook hands with the old boy, his neighbor and a couple of other folk.

I had bumped into JA while on the way to the cinema on Friday (to see The American, when it’s out in November in the UK don’t be fooled into thinking it’s an action thriller, it’s much more sombre, good though). We hadn’t seen each other for a good while and we agreed to head out and take photos again. He said when, I said Sunday? he said ok and there we were, a 7:30 start and to the coast to catch the early sun.

After the cliffs and beaches we wandered round Cudillero, it’s a typical Asturian fishing village, small colourful houses packed into the side of steep hills with pricy seafood restaurants at the bottom. We walked in search of pictures. After the handshake incident we passed a house up on the top level outside of which were hanging half a dozen spatchcocked dogfish. It looked like there was no meat on them so I asked what they were doing there. Drying, JA guessed, but he didn’t know so he asked the old boy in the doorway behind the stinky fish.

They were dogfish, shark of some kind, drying, to be used at christmas to make a traditional dish somewhat like bacalao (the classic salt cod you get almost everywhere in Spain). The old boy motioned us to enter, he was making a fishing lure, but he did more than that, all the walls were covered in shells and pictures made from shells and photos of him as a young man on his boat. We chatted for a while, asking if he still went out fishing. I’m 86 he said, they won’t let me. Your family? The damn government. He showed us some of his mounted shellfish, spider crabs with foot-long claws, mussels the size of baseball gloves, an 8 inch dried seahorse surrounded by dried clam shells. It’s my hobby, he said. As we chatted amiably he said the fishing was sometimes still good but the Basques, the Galicians and the Russians were ruining everything. He said he could understand why the Somali pirates did piracy.

He was a spry old boy, if I was running a boat along the coast of Spain I might be a bit worried.

Mientras paseábamos por las callejones de Cudillero oímos la misa de la mañana por la tele tras las ventanas abiertas. José Ángel eligió un mal momento y pasó por un viejo en su jardín al mismo momento que la misa llegó al “gesto de amistad” y tuve que esperar mientras se daba la mano al viejo, su vecino y unos otros.

Había encontrado a JA cuando iba yo al cine el viernes (para ver la película El Americano, cuando se estrenarán en noviembre en el reino unido no se engañe en pensar que es una película de suspense con acción, es mucho más sombría aun que buena). No nos habíamos quedamos en mucho tiempo y quedamos en salir para sacar fotos otra vez. El dijo ¿cuándo?, dije ¿el domingo?, dijo vale y ya estuvo, una salida a las 7.30 y a la costa para coger el sol temprano.

Después de los acantilados y las playas paseamos por Cudillero, es un típico pueblo de pescadores, con muchas casas pequeñas y de colores muy vivos que están en los pendientes, y abajo hay restaurantes de pescado caros. Andábamos en busca de fotos. Después del incidente de darse la mano pasamos por una casa en el callejón mas alta en donde se colgaban seis pescados (abiertos como libros). Parecía que no había carne así que pregunté por qué estaban allí. Secando adivinó JA, pero no sabía el entonces preguntó al viejo en la puerta detrás los pescados hediondos.

Eran gatas, un tipo de tiburón, secando para utilizarlos en navidad en la preparación de un plato típico, algo semejante a bacalao. El viejo nos invitó adentro, estaba haciendo un cebo pero hacía mucho más, en todos las paredes había conchas y cuadros hechos de conchas y fotos de el como un joven en su barquito. Nos charlamos un rato, le preguntamos si seguía pescar. Tengo 86 años dijo, no me dejan. ¿Su familia? El gobierno de mierda. Nos mostró unos de sus caparazones montados, un centolla con pinzas de 30cm, mejillones de tamaño de guantes de béisbol, un caballito de mar de 20cm rodeado de conchas barnizadas. Es mi hobby dijo el. Tras charlamos amigablemente nos decía que la pesca estaba buena de vez en cuando pero los Vascos, Gallegos y Rusos estaban arruinando todo. Dijo que entendía porque los Somalís hacían piratería.

Era un viejo dinámico, si fuese yo en cargo de una flota de pesca en la costa norte de España podría estar un poco preocupado

En castellano

The summer is winding down, but we’ve had a few days of decent weather, so yesterday I took advantage of temperatures in the low 20s to head to the outdoor pool before they close it on the 15th. Liz usually takes a few minutes to get into the water in the outdoor pool whereas I usually dive straight in… it’s unheated so at 11am it can be bracing.

The other marker of the end of the summer is the San Mateo festival. It also began yesterday, and runs through to the end of Tuesday the 21st. As in previous years it seems to be largely about sandwiches and beer and strolling around the city. There’s a big stage in the cathedral square but I don’t recognize many of the artists, there’s a battle of the bands stage by the faculty of psychology and a jazz stage in the umbrella square. Apart from that there are a number of stages in different areas of the city with fiesta bands… these are the bands that spend the summer playing at fiestas all over, some specializing in the 80s others playing a bit more varied stuff, you see them advertised on rural bus shelters, usually with thin white ties on black shirts or some other cheesy band uniform motif. On some of the message boards there were a lot of moaners complaining that the bands were rubbish this year and how they were going to go to Gijón instead. There’s also a funfair, games and activities for kids in the park, the rally of Asturias and a few dozen sporting events going on.

I went out strolling with my camera to the funfair on the slab above the train station, then around the different stages, wandering solo is entertaining enough, but a large part of the fun seems to be standing around talking, or shouting depending on how near or far a stage is. Still, there’s plenty of time to practice my standing around talking, another 11 days to be precise, although not tonight, because the walking season starts tomorrow, and we leave at 6:45am.

El verano casi se acaba, hacía buen tiempo durante la semana pasada, así que ayer aproveché de las temperaturas que llegaban a los 20 para ir con rumbo a la piscina descubierta antes de la cierran el día 15. Liz normalmente lleva unos minutos para entrar en el agua mientras que me tiro al agua inmediatamente, no hay calefacción entonces a las 11h puede estar fresca.

El otro señal del fin del verano es la fiesta de San Mateo, empezó ayer y durará hasta el final del 21, como los años anteriores parece en gran parte sobre bocatas y cerveza y dar una vuelta por la ciudad. Hay un escenario en la plaza de la catedral pero no conozco muchos de los artistas, hay un concurso de rock en un tablero al lado de la facultad de psicología y un tablero de jazz en la plaza de paraguas. Ademas hay unos tableros en varios barrios en la ciudad en que tocarán orquestas típicas de las fiestas, son las orquestas que tocan en romerías y verbenas todo el verano, algunas tocan en música de los años 80, otras tienen un repertorio un poco mas extensivo, se las ve en publicidad en las paradas rurales de los autobuses, muchas veces llevan corbatas estrechas blancas y camisas negras o algún uniforme cursi. En algunos foros habían muchos que se quejaban que los artistas son malos este año y como iban a ir a Gijón en lugar de ir a San Mateo. Hay también una feria, juegos y actividades infantiles en el parque, el rally de Asturias y unos docenas de eventos deportivos.

Dí un paseo con la camera a la feria que esta en la losa encima de la estación del tren, y después iba por los tableros y escenarios. Pasear solo es bastante entretenido, pero parece que mucho de la entretenimiento es estar de pie charlando, o gritando depende en la proximidad de un escenario. Bueno, me queda mucho tiempo para practicar mi “estar de pie y charlando”, once días más para ser exacto, aun que esta noche no, porque la temporada de caminar empezará mañana y tenemos que salir a las 0645h

Although in the South of Spain the weather seems to be rather, predictable… it’s not quite as simple overall as the weather in the Fast Show.

Up here in the North (where, you can imagine people saying it is grim) when there is a big old Saharan blob of hot air and the wind is from the North it basically generates clouds from the coast to the Picos. Hence, while Seville is baking in 40ºC and the news is full of pictures of people fanning themselves, here it has struggled to get above 23ºC. Days can start with a bit of drizzle, and, in a very Irish manner, continue that way. I’m all for it every now and again, and if I had to choose one or the other, give me coolness every time.

The lack of sun today meant that we didn’t feel like we were missing out on the beach by spending some time getting ready for the last leg of the camino de Santiago. We’re off on the bus to Lugo tomorrow morning (hopefully we’ll be able to wander around the city without having to spend all our time under an umbrella). Then on Tuesday we set off walking and arrive in Santiago on Saturday. I suspect there will be photos to follow.

Aun que parezca previsible el tiempo en el sur del España, en todo el país no es tan sencillo como el tiempo en “The Fast Show”.

Aquí en el norte (donde se puede imaginarse que la gente diga –qué sombrío) cuando hay una masa del aire caluroso del Sahara y el viento viene desde el norte, se produce muchas nubes desde la costa hasta las montañas. Entonces mientras en Sevilla sufren con una temperatura que llega a los 40ºC y las noticias ponen imágenes de la gente abanicandose, aquí la temperatura no llegó a más de los 20º. Los días empiezan con orbayo y, en una manera muy irlandesa, siguen así. De vez en cuando me gusta mucho así, y, si tuviese que elegir una opción o la otra, siempre prefería el fresco.

La falta del sol hoy significó que no sentimos como si hubiésemos perdido ningún tiempo en la playa por las horas que llevabamos preparando las cosas para las ultimas etapas del camino de Santiago. Saldremos en el autobús mañana por la mañana (espero que pudiéramos pasear por la ciudad sin los paraguas). El martes empezaremos andando y llegaremos en Santiago el sábado. Es probable que haya fotos después.

We were looking at the river in Navia, after finishing a walk (the 23rd annual coastal walk), and Julio reminded me that this was the river we’d crossed on the Camino de Santiago to reach Grandas de Salime. An old chap sitting on a bench beside us chimed in and said that it was a damn shame. The river used to be one of the best in northern Spain for trout, salmon and eels, but ever since they built the dam it’s been rubbish.

So far so much random old person “I can remember when all this was fields” but he immediately segued into “This country is nothing but a whorehouse, a badly governed one at that” at which point I smiled, the thought of a badly governed whorehouse being amusing. “What are you smiling at?” he asked. I was on the point of explaining when he decided he had asked a rhetorical question and carried on a blistering denunciation of Zapatero, immigrants, young people and everything else he thought was responsible, returning time and again to his “este pais es nada mas que una casa de putas.” I looked at Julio, he was nodding along respectfully (he is, to be truthful, an unreconstructed right wing working class chap, which is why I never talk politics with him). They then fell to talking about military service, and how it was the best time of their lives (it was like an episode of Alf Garnett). The old feller proudly said he had volunteered to join the military because it was the only way to defend the country at the time, this was a bit much even for Julio, who seemed a little taken aback. Then they compared how tough life was for each of their fathers, how they had to do any work they could, and how the youth of today didn’t know they were born, and the skirts they wear… well, it just aint right. Eventually we made our excuses and left, I think Julio felt he had been out-conservatived, so he was a bit subdued and made up for it by having a go at the Spanish national side (who he said he wants to lose) because according to him, the government have promoted them as La roja (The reds) even though the Spanish flag has yellow as well, it’s a socialist plot, just like the red army, he said. A stunned silence was the only response I could make.

Yeah, come to Asturias, it’ll be great, no, the weather won’t be terrible in June, not in June. Pack an umbrella just in case, and a jumper, maybe wellies. But it’ll be fine.

We can go canoeing down the river Sella, it looks like this, this is June…

Not like this, although this is June too, last week in fact (this is not the Sella, athough it looked remarkably similar).

You can learn new words too, like la tromba… which means downpour (or tornado) and will appear in the local paper headlines along with phrases like ‘local restaurant washed into the sea’.

This is what faced the Wyke clan when they came to enjoy the late Asturian spring. One day of sun, then cloud and rain. Still, they’re a hardy bunch and enjoyed the stuff they were able to do. After all, it didn’t rain continuously, and we had the enjoyment of watching the river rise by about three metres (it was well above the concrete bases of the pillars in the first picture).

I would recommend visiting in July, August or September, but really, this could probably happen any time (just like England in 2007).

Today, we’ll have to behave, said Jesús as we got off the coach. That was all that was said about the previous walk. We had other things to think about.

The walk on Sunday started from the main road that runs to the East of the Picos de Europa, one I’ve travelled along numerous times on the way to Poncebos or Arenas de Cabrales or the delightfully named Poo. The start was at 200m and before us rose the Eastern Massif of the Picos, still flecked with snow at the top, despite the sunny, summery conditions.

We started up, and continued, and continued. The thing with walking in the Picos is that it’s frequently either up or down, traversing at height is less common. The reason they’re called the Picos is that they are pointy. According to some folk, the walking here is harder than, say, the Pyrenees even though it’s not as high, largely because of the steepness. It was 9km and 1400m of up to pico Cuetón. I was grateful that some cloud cover developed and even more grateful for the breeze at the top.

My method when it’s really steep is to start slowly and continue slowly. I often stop and let other, slower walkers catch up, we chat a little and off we go again, and even though I’m slow, I’m not the slowest. At a col near the top some people decided to skip the peak so we left them lounging on the grass, enjoying the views. From the peak (at 1650m) there were fantastic views of the central massif of the picos, although the Naranjo was obscured by cloud. We stayed long enough to take a few photos and to sign our peak card (to be left in a metal container at the base of a stainless steel sculpture of an ice axe at the peak (which had been left there by another mountain group)). We went back down (happy to no longer be going up) to the others and refilled water bottles from a patch of snow (some people just filled their bottles with snow, I constructed a little stone arrangement to direct the snow melt into my bottle, cold cold water, mmm).

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Down, down, down