Picos to Atlantic - wildfires, rain and mileage - Oct 15th to 21st 2017

---

The Picos, or Peaks of Europe, presented us with a great opportunity for some varied hiking terrain.



Curly roads leave Potes, from the picturesque centre, accessing the many valleys surrounding it. Our first choice was an hour and half away, and after some swift re-planning, P2 arranged a nearer hike based from Fuente de.



Early that morning I'd woken to smoke smells in our room and it didn't transpire until leaving that ash on the windows of our car was from pastoral fires.



Approaching Fuente de, the haze hung over the summits of the whole valley, and the crest over which we'd be walking, barely visible. Switchback after switchback, we trudged upwards and with a few breathtaking (aka photo) stops, an hour and half had passed. Crows crowed and eagles soared. Mysterious, and still hazy.



Cresting, the said Vega mentioned in the name of our path, revealed itself, broad and very beautiful. Cue then the wild horses, their canine shepherds (two woolly looking dogs), deer, cows and eventually sheep over the horizon. We saw for miles, met one other hiker on his way up an adjoining path and had the rest to ourselves.



Steeply descending, the mesmerising cow bells and one shepherd appeared. 'Ring ring, here's the herd' they sung. Some bush bashing ensued to get is onto the road that led back to base, with stops taking a decent 5.5 hours.



Well chuffed and philosophised after that, we pulled into the gas station on an empty tank. 'Which side?' I said - a quick look by P2 confirmed the right.



I stepped out, and engaged with señor gas. "Its not my car and I don't like it", followed by "reverse is nearly the same function as first and third".

"No pasa nada" said señor. It doesn't matter. "Only if I have an accident it does!"



We took to the spa waters at infinity Cantabria, then, once siesta ended around 5pm and señor Día opened his supermercado up, we bought up big to celebrate the 16th of October. How cheap is the wine, coffee, dairy, or olives, but try to find coconut cream for a curry? No chance.



Another walk was urged on P2. Uphill I begged, with views. Map man responded and flung into map action. With a tardy start like all Spaniards appear to approach mornings, another fulling cooked breakfast under our belts, we drove 15 minutes to a one horse village.



Lon, westward, had what seemed a car park, a wine cellar hutch, and the typical ramshackle construction we'd come to expect.



Señor elder looked over and I was motioned to 'go talk' for some buen aviso. We confirmed we'd park our car there but the trailhead access wasn't so easy.



Ever trusty internet instructions eventually led us to it on upper part of town with the river on our left, my fig tree radar on high alert. Snow markers might be on the road, but the sandflies and stickiness implied it was one hot microclimate.



On we marched uphill, until hitting an electric fence with low string was we easily passed. Cow shed to our right? No problem. We just crawled under a fence, made of tape, barber wire, packing tape, branches, and coloured twine.



Señor pastoral was lurking. An elderly man with his stick and perro soon accosted us in country dialect.



"Visto orejas?"



Had I seen ears? Orejas?



"No, ovejas!"



In fact make that OBEJAS with capital B, and very loud. Likely he had worn out his ears by his volume, and we then learned we'd too little time in Spain. Nonetheless one month, albeit generous, we then learned he was from Brez. Or was he named Brez? Maybe both.



We bid farewell, and followed his firm direction to completely change direction toward Brez.



We revisited the topo map, that then led us over another dry river and on to a crest in the bottom of this huge stony amphitheater. And there we saw señor at a distance, flock on the river upstream, and he no doubt immersed in the solitude that farming these parts brings.



Down we wove, to Brez. No signage, no tourists. We chanced on señora elder there and her verdant agriculture. "You can take one of these" she said. Large yellow gourds, we had admired, but when traveling, decorative cucurbits "no para comer" were low on our souvenir list.



Back in town, the wild fires had settled, the peaks were now visible, and, a first, the rain fell. And fell. Steady and light, clearing the air and cooling things down for the widespread siestas. The old town awoke around 5, very quietly compared to a humming weekend, and señora Día, back after her split siesta working day, sold these extranjeros the only good looking meat - mince.

We relished a contingency afternoon.



Feeling quite settled in the apartments at infinity Cantabria, it was time to pack up the Mini majorly, and set off for the north. P2 discovered a pool within a short walk of our unit that wasn't just 10 strokes worth. Times were tardy for opening, and being the first swimmer in at 9.30, I entered the darkened polideportivo alone. Lights out, and until señor turned up with his crossword and plastic chair, nobody home.



Well fed again for brunch, P2 lined up a walk that, after steady worsening rain, ended up being done in dramatic cloudy skies with slowly retreating low cloud. Carbrales, in northern Picos, had us on an uphill climb of an hour, to a smaller picture postcard perfect village atop a hill, complete with cows and bells. Bit muddy, bit rocky but very beautiful.



A few hours later and we were navigating to Gijón ("hi hon") in Northern Asturias. The one way system began to irritate, and after a few drive-bys to hotel central, we illegally parked, I left P2 with the luggage and a checked in room, then split for Avis, somewhere nearby.



"Buenos tardes señora"



"Llenado el coche?"



Whoops, no gas. "Turn here then here then there's a few on your left", in Spanish.



Ok, keys in car and off I went.



Looking. But I went, and went, until I'd nearly left town cursing the one ways, and so too were other drivers of me and my illegal phone-used-for-navigating-at-wheel behaviour.



I recalled the screenshots of Gijón and consulted that, stationary on a side street. Hmmm, maybe I need 'constitution street'.



Navigating, navigating, and whoa what do you know, it's a gas station. I let rip to señor my frustration in amiable fashion, to which he replied "everyone on the road is crazy!"



By now I had well and truly overtimed my Avis rental that I eventually got the mini to señora, apologised, and then went by simple foot transport to the hotel.



Accosted somewhat by señor helpful-yet-frazzled who's in charge, my mistake in mentioning paella led to three recommended restaurants. After such effort, we really felt we had to chose one. Unfortunately, ordering, under the seafood section "scallopini" (supposedly peppered scallops), I erroneously got fried flat meat with chips which I'd rather bin than eat. Lesson learned - enunciate your vocabulary and any disappointment well, and maybe it'll be rectified, or relent and give the chips to an appreciative P2. Señor sensed my disappointment, we ate his salty fish between us, and left certain to get more of our euros worth next time.



Receiving a second set of bikes was smooth, and as expected, slightly cheaper per day than the Camino. If not for the banks charging hideous fees to withdraw cash, I'd be heavier of pocket. Luckily, I could get money out in time for Simon from íbero cycles arrival at 9am.



Blue for me, green for him, and loaded up with less (??) than before, we set off for Ribadesella 75km away. I was thankful to señor bike shop man, at Bici Oh, whom as well as engaged us in the philosophy of cycling, replaced my gloves for 30 euros. I had comfy hands again!



The rain stopped, the skies cleared, and the westerly wind blew us gently up those undulating hillocks that P2 loved so much more than our hill training Camino sections.



First stop, Villaviciosa, a flatland town famous for apples. We passed the metallic model in the roundabout and steadily climbed up to Llastres, a lovely historic town on the Atlantic coast. Looking warm enough to swim, I held that thought for later. With a few pains in the chain and the hands, before we knew it, we were climbing these hills easily. Lunch break came in Prado, on Spanish time at 4.30, but where were the cafes, let alone people?



Fig tree after apple tree led us to our home, but not before a celebratory café stop at 6 after 5.5 hours on the go, and a loo inside a building (so few public conveniences, unless you go bush, then they're everywhere). I briefly took the waters at the nearby beach, we ate well, and slept to a humid night, without air conditioning.



Sun greeted us on the following day. Bright sun with many pockets of low cloud and fog in the inland valley. Before long it was coffee and check out time at the typical late 12pm, and with laden panniers we set off.



Llanes was 28km away and my initial error gave us an extra scenic 5km diversion along the industrial area of Ribadasella (although we did spot white herons!)



Onwards and upwards, more undulations, more hawks on power lines, many more crows, more water consumed and more fig trees left free of my influence.



We hit the coast at San Anatolin de Bedon, and that was when we started to really get some marine scenery. Beautiful blue water and white sand, and a lonely fisherman on the rocks trying his luck. We decided to save ourselves for our destination that day.



The roads weaved around the western areas of Llanes after which we rejoined the N road and coasted into the old town centre. A spectacular spot for architecture and, once we'd got a little lost again in the one way systems, we left bound for San Vicente de Barquera.



Adding a few kms already to our schedule, we decided on lunching late in Vidiago or Pandueles. We set up shop with our mobile picnic, emptying my pannier of water and food, at the local water fountain. All eaten and ready to go, bike terror struck. A flat tyre. We reset our evening arrival and set to trying to fix the damn thing.



We jimmied with the tyre levers, two pulling at once, with some know how. Obviously we looked in need when a Spanish man (whom turned out to be a whiz on bike maintenance, and owned a bike company) was out on a little Camino of his own.



He set to work immediately and before long we'd replaced P2s tyre, inspecting the old with a "no puede cierto" as to the cause's whereabouts. Without accepting my gift of NZ coasters I keep for such situations, he went on his way whilst we struggled a little more to find that small bit of metal that holds the wheel on. A greasy but grateful time!



Finally we puffed up our last big hill into San Vicente de la Barquera when we found our digs but nobody was home. I roused a pizza shop lady nearby whom proceeded to call her friend Epi, whom she felt was connected to our apartment owner from Booking.com.

A vigorous exchange ensued on her phone call, whilst we waited, and nothing happened. I tried again at the pizzeria, this time asking the two guys in charge to "prestarme el teléfono gracias", and bang, we got the helpful owner in need of a neck physiotherapist consult. There we were facilitating self neck rotation for her referred sintomas when I over paid her (numbers error), and rescrewed my head on so that I'd the sense to think straight after our seemingly more enduring day. Meanwhile P2 boasted his good healthy thigh feelings, with about 550km so far under our belts.
A good sleep was in order, and the waterfront unit, aside the marina and bridge (Apartamentos Rincon del Puerto) was very quiet all considered. We managed to hook into the town wifi for pilgrams briefly, and set our GPS route for the day ahead. A solid breakfast stoked us for what ended up being a good 4.5 hour stint along the coast to Santander. Leaving over the bridge with a slight tail wind, the breeze picked up such we were positively being blown uphills.

Stopping in Comillas, the point of some more Gaudi works, we had a gander at the tile and roof designs which seemed so modern for their late 1800s era. Onwards to Santillana del Mar, with a beautifully preserved old town sector, it was full of coach tourists. Like sheep, they milled about as I minded the bikes and P2 engaged in some more photos of aged buildings.

Time keeper and drinks lady fulfilled her role and on we pedalled to north of Torrelavega through Barreda, stopping to check our location several times and tracking along the N611 mainly. After Oruna, Arce and eventually descending down for a long spell into Santander (what goes up must come down and doesn't P2 know it!), we had ticked off the towns of Poo, Boo and from our neighbourhood in Santander, we could see Zoo! That is Poo with an accent on the first 'o' too by the way. And with so many San Pedros, what does one do? We did see Pension Paulina in Cue though. One is better than none.

Poor San Pedro though, he had a wee incident when a police car turned abruptly in front of me at a roundabout 500 metres before the end of our final day. I was the cushion, and neither of us nor the bikes were gravely harmed. Senor number 1 of 2 came to our aid, but what could you do with one bruised ego and two apologetic Kiwis? Hand shook and words shared. Thanks policia de Espana!

The Sardinero is a lovely way to celebrate over 600km of riding in 9 days and our survival. The beach is wild with Atlantic surf and I can testify that it is indeed warm enough to wade in, for a Kiwi (although very strong currents and massive 'olas'!!).

The Jeep Renegade can be reversed parked (in an underground car park that is accessed by elevator) by myself, which given the challenges of the trip, I can rightly be proud of. May we sleep like lambs, and meet the new day (and last fortnight of this trip) with buen suerte and sin problemas!

---