Buen Camino!, Viva Espana! and more colloquialisms

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Being at the bottom of a valley, our exit from the ‘French Village’ had to be climbing somewhere.







Nestled alongside a river, with a cathedral, castle (that a Spanish composer resides in part of) and both San Francisco and Santiago’s Iglesias above the quaint town square, the market was in full swing on Tuesday morning. Cool air at 5C, low but bright sunlight, and grapevines dripping over stone walls made for a pretty picture.



After having a brief look at town and a rather rapid check out, we bid adios to Louis and set out around midday towards our next town, Rabanal.



The cycling ahead was flat and began curving through endless vines and fig trees. A distant smoke smog hung over the area, a feature of the fires that had been recently occurring, and gradually we ran into smoke of another kind, the big smoke of Ponferrada where congestion worsened and drivers showed a rare dissatisfaction for cyclists on the road. We consulted our GPS, briefly stopped by the river, and started onwards to Molinaseca.



The cute village again served as a brief stop before what would be an afternoon of climbing, climbing and more climbing. Let’s have a coffee break at the top, I suggested, on good experience that eating and drinking before a climb wasn’t good on the stomach.



There was no stone unturned when it came to curves, switchbacks and gradient. Our estimated arrival at El Acebo became a good 1 hour and 30 from the bottom of the valley with many stops and now rising heat. We chose to lighten my load by eating lunch, the village dead quiet and seemingly shut down. It was not until we advanced more up that enduring hill did we see a smattering of small lodges and a few cafes offering el menu del dia.



We pushed on, feeling the strain, and seeing and knowing that based on P2’s topographical maps, more climbing awaited us.



In the end, once we had slowed to under walking pace, and reached the gut busting top at 1511 metres above sea level, a cool 15km had been climbed, and at that point we began our initially undulating then solidly downhill descent, assured that this was the toughest riding (with panniers of between 5 and 10kg for us both) days that we had ever done.



We rode into Rabanal feeling chuffed, passing through Foncebadon near the summit, and 7km further to a washing machine, fully equipped kitchen and rural Spanish welcome at Las Carballedas.



The ‘supermarket’ in the tiny village of Rabanal was still open at 7.30pm, with Pak N Save prices. At 10 square metres, he ran a swift trade



Extending the meaning of super, we robbed senor supermarket of his unadvertised and likely only zanahorias (“no carrots tonight for tea honey, some New Zealanders bought them … “). Small, under watered carrots they were, but much appreciated.



Then a half dozen of eggs of which I cracked one (‘(I’ll buy them all senor”), a remaining beer to supplement the one P2 carried to 1511m above sea level, cans of veges, and voila, with my cartage of apples, rice, stock cubes, cardboard wine, cheese, pastrami, and yoghurt in the cooler bag, and we were in business. A veritable made up feast.



Far lighter in the bags come breakfast time, I got up before and headed off on a pannier free bike for a jaunt, to run into wildlife that P2 never gets on camera – a deer springing across my path near the village of Santa Colomba de Somozo. Our host verified afterwards these parts regularly get -15C in winter and a snowscape was easy to imagine.



Back again to Rabanal afterwards for more photos, and it soon was midday, time to check out, and head where the nalgas wanted us to go – less effort and downhill. A nice little intercambio ensued too, around a picture of a pukeko on a bookmark, with NZ rated by him as a beautiful place. So too was Spain we said.



Village by village slipped away beneath our wheels, and the km’s passed as rapidly as those numerous Peregrinos that we were saying ‘Hola’ or ‘Buen Camino’ to. It was off season, but still very much well-trodden land.



Astorga was the first main town, and Gaudi too left his imprint here in the late 19^th century next to the Cathedral. The Episcaple Palace was built between 1889 and 1913, and seems ahead of its time design wise.



Onwards, and we kept a steady 18-25kph pace, often far more when scaling down the gentle hills through a parched landscape of soon to be harvested corn. Tractors kicked up dust and the breeze pushed at our tails.



Life was easy, except for buttocks, and after some time we had reached the 14km to go stage. Eager to have a break at a café, it too some searching to get a) service and b) without cigarette smoke, succeeding at San Miguel del Camino in a small restaurant where we had obviously hit siesta time. The order eventuated with a second request, over which we discussed our navigation plan to get to Hospederia Monastica Pax lodge in the centre of Leon.



Many many turns and recaps of the route later, and we finally arrived in the old town location at 6pm. Traffic had increased by now, but the joy of showering, then soaking, and using the spa bath to agitate our bike clothes was stupendous. We renourished, rehydrated, and enjoyed a delicious meal of fish for me and, it had to be, a slab of meat for P2. Life was easy, and with a National fiesta on the horizon, we planned ahead that night.



But never would cafes and bars be completely shut in Spain, in fact the hour of promenading seemed to peak earlier that afternoon instead of the tardy 10 to 10.30pm the night before, when the Plaza Major and surrounds started to hum.



Our forewarning by Senor Hotel, a very helpful local man, would be to expect closures. Come 9am when I ventured out with the last day of bike hire to use, leaving P2 to rest his nalgas some more, I got up the valley 15km or so to Villaverde de abajo. This lead, naturally to Villaverde de arriba. Arriba, abajo, fluff goes up, fluff comes down. Beautiful and scenic A dry yet cold climate.



Town was completely silent up until even 11am, when we headed out to explore. Late rising, late living.



The cathedral of Leon is to behold and captures the attention of many visitors, and their cameras and selfie sticks. Built in the 13^th Century by Alfonso the 6^th whom reigned at that time, and filled with religious icons over several stages of life, its history includes recent attempts to salvage the falling structures from the roof. There were several phases of construction and reconstruction over the centuries that has recently culminated in a large effort in the mid-1800s. A canny system of scaffolds lead to the eventual restabilisation of the magnificent church, also famous for its stained glass windows, with their design set to optimise the light from the southern side.



A good hour and a half later, when all photos had to surely be exhausted and the enormity of this place absorbed, we headed to Albany. Confiteria that is, not the namesake in Auckland. Coffee imbibed, well served, and service with a smile, we were well refuelled to take on leg two of Leon – all the rest to the West.



San Isidro church, followed by Park de Cuidad, Plaza Santa Domingo, the Rio Bergnesa, the pilgrim without his shoes on sculpted in one of the town squares, and on it went. Park after park, fountain after fountain, and quiet after quiet street; it was siesta / food break time back at base.



After which we headed out again, 25 to 28C still at 5pm, by promenading the now heaving (for a National holiday) Calle Ancha and seeking out Albany again for part two tea break. I won’t be ordering Jamaican coffee again - with so many customers and not enough staff to serve, the harried waitress probably won’t serve this foreigner cream topping and spilled coffee once more either. We graciously left, and made plans for the evening with our ever helpful Senor Hotel on several notes.



P2 tried his Spanish handlebars, seeing as we had two bikes to pack up and prepare for collection. Seeming anatomical, SpanishDict reliably told him what it was.‘Oh no, not that word!’ we were told, yet again, learning one more noun to never think of using again, even if it means what we intended in Latin America!



We strode the streets, and found nobody whom would take us in for tea at the early hour of 9.30pm. A room of nearly empty tables at one, Alfonso Valderes, yielded an ‘I am busy’ from the Chef. Finally we got lucky – one whom took us under their budget chicken wings and seafood risotto menu to serve up an economic feast, with wine, for under 40 euros. They do exist! From mildly pretentious, to chain, we wouldn’t go hungry and settled in to bed safe in the knowledge that Senor Luis at the hotel had our black bags of bike gear and the code to unlock them the next day.



Bless the late Spanish check outs. We had arranged to get our rental car around 10am, and after attempts unsuccessfully to change it by phone that morning, we decided to wing it and turn up after we had done our errands, around 11. With an enjoyable hotel breakfast that was not out of plastic yoghurt containers in our room (as rooms never seem to have kettles nor cups for making a tea), it was a leisurely morning.



Senorita greeted us at Avis and once official items signed and explained in Spanish, we took ourselves to the car, a Mini Cooper wagon. Multiple attempts to figure out how to start it and reverse it ensued, and finally, with senoritas help, we were on our way through the hectic, mainly one way streets of Leon.



A manual, a right hand drive. Two significant issues to contend with. I bunny hopped P2 and myself from semaforo to semaforo, until we eventually got on the N road out of town so far without hitting anyone or anything but with high levels of holiday stress. Nonetheless, deviating slightly to go to some caves we had lined up, we started to wind through the rural countryside we had read of. Bright yellows, azure blues and dry ground made for a great contrast.



We rolled up to Valporquero around 1.30pm, having wound through a gorgeous gorge, and discovered that we would have the chance to join a tour for 6 euros at 2.30pm. Score! And what was more, few others had too, so we had a small group of 6.



Delivered in Spanish from Senor (whom liked better to be referred to as chico/ young man), P2 did well to get the gist of things, as to the cycle of how such cave systems form, and the spectacular show of being beneath and beside them. 7C constant temperature, surrounded at the entrance and nearby land with often up to 2 metres of snow, and experiencing a rage of -5 to -20C in winter. The labyrinth of caves extended beneath the car park and upper town, of about 1.1km in length, and in parts 30-50 metres high inside. This surely was one impressive landscape!



Out into the afternoon light we stepped, fortunate that the next tour group waiting was about 5 times our size.



Paramo was our destination for this night and with some weaving and winding, the road narrowed to the kind where I was riding the centre line to avert the metal railing, snow markers and steep drop on our right. A truck gave us little room on one corner too but no crisis, as yet.



To descend into Paramo therefore was serene. Once we had located our place, a spitting image of the Booking.com app advert, we wedged ourselves in between two cars, passing inches from old homes and their old stone walls to get there. No scratches, as yet.



Blanca Diaz Lagar, our host, was so welcoming. However, if it weren’t for me putting the clothes in the wrong part of her top loading washing machine with a fancy drum, that I never before seen, yet had asked insufficient instructions for, it would have been an even better evening. To the rickety sound of running a second cycle (after we roused her from her home up in the main village), it was then that P2 mentioned it was Friday the 13^th.



Sopping clothes got hung out and a sheepish interaction was to happen thereon in. But when it did, my offer of paying something towards the machine repair was refused, and my remaining lost cycle glove, no doubt inside somewhere, was offered for future cyclists that may hire bikes from her.



Someido National Park was area we honed in on near Paramo for hiking. Known for its dramatic peaks and terrain, P2 did his navigating and topo map research intensively beforehand, and the day evolved with the intention of first seeing La Paral and possibly the trails deeper into the park up the valley from Pola de Someido.



A good hour of tight driving back up the valley, and then through more quiet country towns, got us to the trail head at La Paral, about 400 metres down from the main intersection with the road to Somiedo. It was, as we have come to note in some areas, completely unmarked, but represented on a topo map and walkable. We started with a few small stream crossings then gradually wove up the ridge to follow alongside the fence line, and over the said barbed fences with a canny open shut mechanism showing the Spanish have as much ingenuity as Kiwis.



At that stage a fire that had started to rage over the mountain tops to the west, sending huge clouds of smoke our way. Reaching another inaccessible fence junction, we decided our health depended on going back to the car and trying another trail. Cut short but beautiful scenery nonetheless.



About fifteen minutes by car onwards got us to the park office at Pola de Someido, and the assistant worked hard with her three way conversation between myself and P2, and two other couples to give us a rundown of hikes in Spanish. The query of ‘is it safe up there/ ‘como es el ambiente por alli’ got a resounding yes, and a few curses to the shepherd or arsonists whom had kick started the massive movement of smoke into the valley there too.



Back and forth, we switched back many times in the Mini Cooper, my checker on the right checking he would remain alive, and me hugging or often running the centre line as driver. If I felt a lack of space on this road could shake me, the village ahead (where the dance of who goes first on these supposed two lane roads) continued to raise my anxiety about damaging this fine machine, especially with the annoying reverse-meets-first-gear function.



In one piece, we parked up and set off around 2pm for an afternoon hike that would be a walk in the park, literally. 6km twice, on first sealed then dusty roads, would make up a 4 hour afternoon easily. Step by step, photo by repeated photo, we made our way to the lake, Lago de Valle. The sun side and forest side, so clearly remarked by the tourist centre lady, was spot on. Dramatic, beautiful, but what was even more intense were the COLOURS. So many COLOURS. Down we eventually came, along a goat track, and then to our ride, where the descending sun glowed red through the smoky air. We slept well that night!



The morning we left Paramo allowed time to explore the hills yonder. Trail heads being within 100 metres of our accommodation headed steeply and directly into the hills via the first elevated village, Sub, at 1040 metres above sea level. An ongoing steady climb from the top of the village took us towards the ‘collado’ or mountain pass, with many a cow and occasional shepherd out for a stroll with their perros! Such perros roamed through Paramo at a ratio of as many children on bikes, especially those calling out ‘chico!’ as we passed.



We bid farewell to Senora Gracious, so kind was she after I stopped her lavadora working with, likely, a cycle glove. RIP the glove, and I bequeathed her with one half of a pair, as when they did get a mechanic out to investigate the cause, the lonely glove would then be hopefully of use to those whom hired bikes from her.



The light began to shine after we left, making the trip through from Paramo to the north and then circling around the ranges to head again south east (of Oveido) very photogenic. Pola de la Lena, Santa Cruz de Mieres, Puerto de San Isidro, La Una, Buron, Riano, Los Espejos de la Reina and La Vega. In all this mountain climbing, a few hard core cyclists that we saw were no doubt making the most of altitude and Tour de France type training grounds.



Crossing the Picos de Europa on one side, after many switchbacks and nauseatingly rickety mountain roads, we descended down through what could possibly be the smallest village and shortest distance between town entry and town exit signage, about 100 metres!



Eventually arriving in Potes, seeking a car park, food supplies and directions due to failed GPS functions, we made that fatal mistake – it was the Holy day in Spain, a Sunday. Of course, you can buy booze and drink coffee but as to whether you could buy supplies, it was another ‘nada’. Directed to a bar by the information centre, open until 7pm (!), we managed to put together a basic meal with our remaining stocks. Resourceful, and satiated.



The mercury had risen to 28 – 29C in the Picos, and the prospect of rain lay ahead. Would we be so lucky after blue skies until now?

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