More meanderings

After ending up changing our walking plans last week, we decided to have another crack at our original idea to walk the Ruta de las Xanas and treat ourselves to lunch at the restaurant half way round. With it definitely open this time (nothing to do with the festival of San Juan last week apparently, they are actually closed every Wednesday!) and a comfortable 24°C with sunny intervals forecast, we set off in anticipation of another lovely day out.

We were planning to do a 9 kilometre / 5.6 mile circular walk, but I would recommend the first section which climbs from the car park and picnic site at Las Xanas up to the village of Pedroveya as the most perfect walk for anyone who wants a little taster of Asturias, a sort of perfect essence of the landscape distilled into a relatively short distance. The gorge, cut in places to a depth of 8o metres over millennia by the río Viescas, is not as long or quite as spectacular as the iconic Cares Gorge in the Picos, but I think it is prettier, far richer in different ecosystems and is definitely much, much quieter. As with so many of our walks here, we hardly saw a another soul.

The walk also has the added benefit for us that I can actually do it without too much trouble, unlike Cares Gorge which I have attempted from both ends, stepping out merrily for a couple of hours before collapsing in a vertigo-induced freeze. The only thing for it then is to find a ‘safe’ place to sit off the path and let my companion(s) carry on without me. I wouldn’t dream of spoiling the walk for anyone else and learnt a long time ago to always pack a good book in my rucksack on those kind of jaunts! It is the most ridiculous thing, I know, but that’s just how it is sometimes.

Anyway, there is only one short stretch of the Xanas Gorge which I don’t enjoy much and the trick for me is to hang on to Roger’s shirt tails for a few moments – well, at least, to tuck in close behind him so I can focus my gaze on his sure and steady footsteps and ignore the sheer drop which my subconscious mind is convinced I’m going to inexplicably tumble down at any given moment. It might seem like a waste of good scenery but I think of it as a little bit of hiking mindfulness that gets me up there! It’s most definitely worth the effort because when I can lift my eyes again, the scenery is completely stunning.

Given that this walk is literally spitting distance from the Ruta del Oso where we cycled a couple of weeks ago, it was fascinating how the sides of the path bloomed with an almost completely different range of wild flowers. It never fails to amaze me how so much life seems to spring from the rocks!

The gorge is two kilometres long and towards the top, we caught our first glimpse of the river tumbling energetically in tiered waterfalls to crystal clear plunge pools below; this is reputedly the haunt of the mythical xanas after whom the walk is named.

When Annie visited us last year, we walked through the woods from home to the little río Caliente (literally ‘hot’ or ‘warm’ river – although it very much isn’t!) and being the proud owner of an enormous and very active imagination, she became captivated by the idea of such spots being inhabited by water nymphs. As none seemed interested in gracing us with their presence, she spent a long time weaving intricate decorations of flowers and foliage into Sarah’s hair and mine, which ~ as we both lack the necessary long flowing locks to be proper xanas ~ was obviously the next best thing! I’ve yet to see one of these enchanting beauties but I really can’t blame them for choosing to dwell in such magical spots.

Leaving the gorge, the path climbs steeply through a delightfully tangled swathe of broad-leaved woodland decked out in its full summer green and bristling with bird life. Eucalyptus and pine, those thuggishly scented big hitters, are both absent and so the air is filled with a more subtle perfume here, something lightly spiced, fresh and green with mushroomy undertones of damp, mossy earth. Amongst the lush undergrowth there are the faintest sketches of past human activity, tiny overgrown meadows and a tumbledown stone mill, which speak of lost years and changing times; how quickly nature reclaims the land once it is left.

More climbing and we emerged out of the trees to bright sunlight and breathtaking views. The meadows here were completely stunning, rippling with rainbows of flowers amongst the silvery grasses and shimmering with the haze of thousands of dancing butterflies. It’s impossible to do justice to the scene with words; I simply stood and stared.

The church of San Antonio occupies a beautiful tranquil spot where it’s possible to sit and rest or eat a picnic on stone seats and enjoy the surroundings. No sheep or dogs this time, their meadows are soon to become hay . . . and no picnic for us because we were almost at the village of Pedroveya and that promised lunch.

Now at this point in our walk we realised that we were, quite honestly, a complete pair of numpties. For starters, it hadn’t taken us anywhere near as long as anticipated to climb the gorge and consequently we were way too early for Spanish lunchtime service. Also – can you believe this? – neither of us was particularly hungry, as Roger had eaten his hobbit’s second breakfast after a long early morning run and I had tucked into my favourite super-sustaining brekky of oats, nuts, seeds and dried fruit. We know that the restaurant serves generous helpings of hearty Asturian dishes, true fill-your-boots comfort food indeed, which suddenly seemed far more suited to the end of a long walk in much cooler weather. Now, anyone who is beginning to feel we never actually stick to Plan A could be on to something, but hey ~ life’s more interesting that way and predictability is so outdated in my book! We have certainly sat in worse spots to ponder our next move, that’s for sure.

As we have something of a track record when it comes to near starvation on foodless hikes (sorry, Sam and Adrienne!), we had packed some emergency apples and plenty of water, so we decided to carry on with our walk and top up our tummies a bit later. It’s a steep climb from Pedroveya to the neighbouring village of Dosango but gives rise (if you’ll excuse the pun) to some utterly spectacular views; the sky was definitely doing its best to impress, too.

When we walked these lanes in January, the verges were studded with primroses and violets but now they were bursting with the dainty floral beauties we’d seen up the gorge ~ scabious, campanula, astrantia, pinks ~ and a supporting froth of yarrow, St John’s wort, Queen Anne’s lace and valerian amongst others.

There was a gentle busyness to Dosango; a chap quietly and rhythmically scything grass in an orchard and a lady bent double, pulling weeds from between the rows of glossy maize plants and the climbing beans that are planted to scramble up them. A seemingly ancient lady sat on her balcony, face turned to the sun and simply enjoying the incredible view; well, who could blame her?

From the village, the walk follows a road for a while then turns across country once more; it’s pretty much downhill all the way back to the start from here. This stretch reminds me slightly of the South Shropshire hills ~ the Stiperstones, perhaps? ~ with wide, close-cropped paths of springy turf and waves of bracken blanketing the rock-encrusted slopes. Just a few tough little mountain sheep required!

Time to act daft for the camera in a little burst of playful energy . . . personally, I blame those oats.

Down, down, down, and the last stretch happily passes through another area of deciduous woodland; not so happily, the camera battery died just as I was about to take a few close-ups of that chestnut tree by the side of the path. What an ancient and incredibly statuesque creature it is with a huge mossy-furred bole and limbs so twisted, heavy and stretched they seem to defy gravity. Never mind, I love this photo anyway; in a few days’ time we will be celebrating our 35th (!!!) wedding anniversary, and a little research tells me this one is ‘jade.’ Well, I have no desire for precious stones but for me, time spent walking with my Best Beloved in this landscape of countless greens is a priceless treasure indeed.

Back to the car and the briefest of stops on our way home soon had the (lack of) dinner situation sorted. We might have missed out on hefty tureens of steaming pote, fabada and arroz con leche but a couple of barbecued local steaks, homemade pitta bread and an abundant salad from the garden didn’t feel remotely like a disappointment. There’s not a bad view from our outdoor dining room, either. As for that promised restaurant meal ~ third time lucky, maybe? 🙂

Midsummer meanderings

With our holiday plans scuppered and the Asturian borders opened, along with the rest of Spain, to visitors once again (she says wearing very worried eyebrows) we decided this would be a good time to get out and do a few walks before the main tourist season takes off. Not that it’s ever really that busy here, but we are generally very spoilt in having trails and beaches pretty much to ourselves for most of the year and it’s all relative. Once August arrives, we are happy simply to stay at home.

Midsummer garden

Our first idea was to go back to walk the Ruta de las Xanas which we did with Sam and Adrienne back in January, but instead of risking a possible mugging by the huge mountain hound at the top of the gorge, we thought we would forgo the picnic and treat ourselves to lunch in the village bar ~ and as that is something we rarely do, it really would be a treat indeed. However, having checked online we discovered that it was closed for the festival of San Juan. Ah, okay.

We had a fantastic day out on the Ruta de las Xanas with Adrienne and Sam earlier this year.

Unlike in neighbouring Galicia, June 24th is not a public holiday in Asturias but obviously, as in this case, individuals can choose to mark it if they wish. In many parts of Spain, the night of the 23rd sees huge celebrations where people come together to dance, light bonfires on beaches and party throughout the night. Although as the Feast of Saint John it’s nominally a Christian festival, the celebrations themselves are based on much older pagan ways and share many similarities with other cultural acknowledgements of the summer solstice around the globe.

Time for Plan B and we decided to try a new walk in the neighbouring municipality of Tineo, one we’ve been meaning to do for some time now. As the crow flies, it’s not that far from home but there is no easy or direct route to the starting point so we suspected the journey on twisty mountain roads could end up being as interesting as the walk itself. It certainly was, and the scenery was spectacular, especially a valley filled with white, fluffy cloud; I hope I never become immune to natural beauty such as this.

There was no cloud at the start of our walk, just bright sunshine and a brilliant blue sky that suggested the day would be much hotter than forecast. The scenery was stunning, the trees all decked out in their full summer foliage and the dusky mountains rolling away into the distance.

The path soon turned down a greener than green lane which looked like it was going to develop into a really pleasant hike until some way down, we hit a major snag: the path was completely overgrown. Now, I realise that I might sound very hypocritical having recently moaned about the verges being cut (on which note, the morning’s journey through verges full of wild flowers and insect life had restored my faith a good deal, the strimming obsession seems to be very local to our valley)! One of the results of the COVID-19 situation is that many trails and picnic sites haven’t been maintained as they normally would have been and this left us with a problem. As country people we are prepared to wade through vegetation, squelch through mud, paddle across rivers or clamber over or under fallen trees, but waist-high nettles in shorts? Nope, not doing it . . . especially as it was early on in an eleven-kilometre circular walk and who knows what the rest might be like?

The path didn’t stay this clear for long!

Back to the car and on to Plan C. By this point of our days out, things often start to get a little needy and this one was no exception. Roger, who had been up since cockerel o’clock and run a half marathon distance before I’d even started my breakfast, was ready for his lunch; I, on the other hand, having lounged about drinking far too many mugs of tea and coffee was jiggling from foot to foot in need of a secluded spot for a ‘wild wee.’ We decided the best course of action was to head to nearby Navelgas and have our picnic in a shady woodland site next to the river. I love spots like these, for me they are pure Asturias ~ especially with the sound of cowbells ringing from the meadow beyond.

Navelgas is a lovely little town in a very pretty spot; in certain parts of the UK, it’s the sort of place that would be heaving with visitors, full of tea shops, arty boutiques and hiking and camping outlets. Instead, it’s full of friendly people quietly living their lives in the midst of beautiful scenery . . . and not a postcard or cream tea in sight!

It’s also the starting point for several good walks, some of which we’d already done so opting to try a new one, the Senda Verde de Brezo, we headed out of town along the river.

The route climbed steeply through woodland carpeted with wild strawberries, where the evocative spicy scent of warm pine took me straight back to the Canadian Rockies, albeit without the added excitiment of meeting a black bear around the corner!

There is something so special about woodland at this time of year, with the shafts of high sunlight piercing the leaf canopy and the air ringing with the incessant sound of birdsong. It was truly magical.

Further on, and we emerged from the trees to more open country and another path where nature was doing its own thing but thankfully not in a jungle of nettles this time. There were drifts of cheery yellow St John’s wort everywhere; very fitting given the date, I thought.

The path was still obviously quite passable but the issue with places like this is ticks, which seem to be especially bad this year. I find the best solution is to let another warm-blooded animal (preferably with hairy legs) go on ahead, after which it’s only fair to do some mutual tick-picking in true monkey grooming style!

On reaching the top of the climb, we stood and drank in the wide-reaching views. It never fails to amaze me how we can be looking at mountains higher than Ben Nevis and see farms or even whole village communities perched on top.

Someone with a lot of foresight had placed a bench there so we sat and enjoyed a drink of water, surrounded by the bustling busyness of bees and soporific fluttering of butterflies. Blimey, it was hot!

Given the heat and how much of the day it had taken us to reach this point, we decided not to go right to the end of the walk. Like not climbing to the top of a mountain, this sort of thing never bothers me because it’s about the journey, not the arriving; in fact, sometimes I think doing part of a set trail rather than the whole thing can be more pleasurable and rewarding, especially if a slower pace gives me the chance to really immerse myself and indulge my senses in the surroundings. Retracing our steps through the relative cool of the woodland, I lost myself in awe and wonder at the dancing silhouettes of ancient chestnut trees and the leafy elegance of it all.

Arriving back in Navelgas, we spent a little time looking at the beautiful seventeenth century panera de San Nicolás, draped with dried corn cobs in the traditional fashion. On our way back through the woods, we had collected some huge pine cones to add to the collection of natural ‘finds’ we are incoroporating into the enchanted garden part of our orchard. At first glance, there appeared to be a couple of giant carved ones beneath the panera . . .

. . . but on closer inspection, they turned out to be something quite different! Maybe we should have a go at carving one of these for the garden, too?

Home again, and what seemed to have begun as a bit of a scrappy, stop-go day had turned out to be very enjoyable in a gentle and satisfying way ~ no whizz-bang-pops, no great dramas or challenging paths, just a good walk in a beautiful spot and fabulous weather. Well, I say fabulous but nature had other ideas; no sooner were we home, than the blue sky disappeared in a tumult of storm clouds, the darkened valley became moody and atmospheric and the thunder rolled in. As the first fat spots of rain darkened the terrace slates, I reflected on the incredible range of midsummer skies we had experienced all in the space of one day. So fickle. So beautiful. So Asturias. 🙂

Just enough time to enjoy a glass of wine on the terrace before the heavens opened!

A-roamin’ with the Romans

For the third year in a row, we are promising ourselves a trip south to the Sierra Nevada to spend a few days doing some serious walking in the mountains in late spring when the alpine flowers are at their best. Maybe this year we will finally get there, but in the meantime we have been enjoying roaming about much nearer to home; in fact, none of the walks we have done over the last couple of weeks has been further than 20 kilometres from home. Much as we both love the challenge of a long, all-day hike with that wonderful freedom of being out and about and self-sufficient on two feet, there’s a lot to be said for shorter walks, too, especially ones that have allowed us to explore local places at our leisure.

Our first wander took us to the top of Pico Paradiella, a mountain that is literally a stone’s throw away; Roger has run up it from home but to my shame, after being here for almost four years, I had never walked up it. Isn’t that often the way? It was what Winnie the Pooh would almost certainly have described as a Very Blustery Day – the wind on the way up was the kind you can lean on – but it was well worth the buffeting for the spectacular views we enjoyed once at the top. The close proximity of the coast still surprises me at times, we spend so much time in the green fastness of our valley that I tend to forget the sea is just over the mountain, and there it was, all turquoise and white and sparkling in the sunshine. The coastal strip is far more populated than our inland area but seen from above there is something joyfully Asturian about the spread of those brightly coloured houses under their terracotta roofs.

Another day, another peak. This time, Pico La Espina, a mountain which is hugely familiar as it dominates our view down the valley from home; unless the cloud is down, we see it every time we go in and out of the house . . . but yet again, it was a mountain I’d never climbed. Time to put that to rights! At 793 metres above sea level, it offers a stunning 360 degrees panoramic view; to the north, the sea lay brooding under a thick bank of cloud, long white fingers of which were creeping steadily towards the coastline; to the south and east, much higher soaring peaks made dramatic, snow-clad statements against the bluest of skies. Geography was one of my very favourite subjects at school and I love an opportunity like this to study the landforms, the sweeps and dips and plains, the curve of rivers and sprawl of forests, the patterns of geology and settlement, climate and altitude that make and shape this unique landscape. Looking from above brings a different and sometimes startling perspective and it was fascinating for once to be looking from this mountain top to home – albeit still shrouded in morning shade apart from the tiniest corner of our meadow.

It never fails to amaze me how we can wind up and up, sometimes passing through the wildest of country to the highest of places, and still find farms, settlements and lush green fields of grazing cattle. Like the closeness of the sea, it is taking me a long time to accept that here height doesn’t necessarily mean bald mountain tops, bleak rocky outcrops or barren, windswept moorlands of tough grasses and even tougher sheep. There is a peace and gentleness to this place and, turning my face to the sun and listening to the exuberant melody of a spiralling lark, I was happy to wrap it around myself .

Of course, it’s not all beauty and wonder; forestry is a big industry here and an elevated position highlights the ugly scars and emptiness left in the wake of clear felling activity. Eucalyptus has been a boon tree for many countries tackling deforestation as it grows so quickly, but in Spain and Portugal it has been too successful, becoming an invasive species that seriously degrades the soil in which it grows. It seems pretty ubiquitous and yet from our lofty perch, as on other recent walks, we could see areas that have been given over to replanting with native species; in fact, there is a wealth of EU-funded programmes and projects devoted to the regeneration of native mixed woodland where the likes of oak, willow, birch, cherry and holly flourish above an understorey of gorse and Spanish heath. Over the next few decades, the Asturian landscape is set to change once again, I feel.

From Pico La Espina we wound our way down to Navelgas to pick up and follow a short stretch of the Ruta de Oro (Gold Route). This is an area where, like so many far-flung places, the Romans left an indelible mark on the landscape and society as they sought gold to fund their ever-expanding empire. The Astures, who had previously lived in small, self-sufficient communities behind the defensive walls of their fortified castros now had to pay tributes for the privilege of being occupied and provide labour for the gold mines as well as food, tools and other necessities. The gold, which they had traditionally collected by panning the river, became a focus of large-scale industry as the Romans introduced technology, including systems of vast canals, which allowed them to shift some two million cubic metres of soil and rock in order to mine two seams of gold. (This would seem like an almost unbelievable statistic if it weren’t for the fact that on our visit to the gold mines at Las Médulas near Ponferrada we saw how the Romans had washed an entire mountain away; nothing, it seems, got between them and the shiny ore they craved). This walk, though, was more about green than gold, winding its way as it does through a beautiful area of broadleaf woodland where birdsong resounded and echoed as if in some cavernous cathedral.

The soft haze of budburst, the carpets of shaggy mosses, the texture and form of gnarled and twisted trunks and the bright explosion of ferns made it feel quite magical. I know at least one small person who would have declared it the undisputed haunt of unicorns and goblins and in truth, the air of enchantment was palpable. I have never seen such an array or profusion of woodland ferns, from the glossy, graceful hart’s tongue to frondier types that grew taller than us; everywhere was green on green, like an incredible lush temperate jungle.

It’s no coincidence that a proliferation of chestnut trees is a feature of the local gold-mining areas; although it is believed the sweet chestnut was already a native here before the legions marched in, the Romans valued them highly and many ancient chestnut woodlands and orchards date back to that time. The trees yielded good timber for building and industry and the nuts provided a nutritious alternative food source to cereals. Chestnuts are without doubt a significant part of the Asturian landscape, culture and cuisine (there are 58,000 hectares of chestnut forest and orchard here) and it was interesting to find the remains of several traditional cuerrias in the woods. These were circular stores with stone walls up to one and a half metres – tall enough to thwart the best efforts of even the most gymnastically-minded wild boar – where chestnuts were stored whole and covered with woodland ferns; once matured, they could then be easily separated from their spiny covers.

There are beech trees, here, too, one of my favourites with their smooth grey trunks and long cigar-shaped buds bursting into the freshest and brightest of greens. They are a native species; indeed, we chose Spanish beech for the worktops and floor when we renovated our kitchen. What is unusual, however, is the way they have evolved to thrive here at altitudes above 300 metres. This is a relatively short walk but the further we went, the more there was to discover and ponder, including the arched entrance to a mine, now flooded with water, and various formations of land and rock that hinted at much ancient human activity. Now, though, nature has reclaimed the space in a way that has brought tranquility and a tremendous thriving biodiversity. Having recently read Isabella Tree’s Wilding, I found the wise words of Ted Green the tree expert reflected in the plethora of dead wood and stumps that have been left in situ, so essential for wildlife, the ecosystem and the planet.

We returned home via the Valle de Paredes, one of my favourite haunts on account of the incomparable beauty of the Esva river and its gorge. San Pedro de Paredes is a charming and friendly village, which according to tales from the Middle Ages was once part of the Camino de Santiago. The valley boasts evidence of much older civilisations, too, in the form of a dolmen and menhir, but it is perhaps the romanesque architecture and, in particular, the sweeping double-arched bridge in San Pedro that really capture the imagination; those Romans were a busy bunch for sure!

Our coastal walk from the village of Oviñana to the Cabo Vidio lighthouse and the Playa de Vallina provided a complete contrast to the mountains and woodlands we had visited, almost like a little tapas meal of Asturian delights. We are running in a 10k race here later in the month and I was interested to get a feel for the route and to explore a new stretch of coastline. The scenery, as ever, was stunning.

We wandered along the clifftop path where in places the drop below us was almost vertical. Here there is a treasure trove of fascinating wildlife, but perhaps some of the most interesting species are those we were unable to see. Out to sea, there is a system of submarine canyons dropping to 1200 metres and scientists have made some astonishing discoveries in these secret depths, including cold water coral reefs and turtles that have made the epic journey from South America. Most intriguing of all is the giant squid. Unlike its smaller cousins, it is not fished for as it is inedible due to the large amount of ammonia in its body – probably no bad thing since it grows to 14 metres long and weighs in at an incredible 250 kilos. What a creature!

Walking a kilometre or so down a winding, woodland path we emerged onto the Playa de Vallina and, as on so many of our other beach trips, we had the vast sweep of it to ourselves. Like the Ruta de Oro, here too there was evidence of human activity and industry from earlier times with a couple of old mills bearing testament to the power of the stream that disappears underground on reaching the beach.

The beach itself is quite unusual in being mostly composed of small stones rather than the sand we tend to find elsewhere but the rock formations with their tilted, tortured angles and deep splashes of mineral colour were very familiar.

What a wonderfully wild spot, with the surge and suck of the waves making the pebbles jump like peas on a drum and the plaintive cries of seabirds wheeling overhead. Not for the first time – and I am certain not for the last, either – I found myself experiencing a profound sense of gratitude for being able to enjoy this most beautiful of places. ¡Gracias, Asturias!

One of the things I love most about days out like this is the picnic and I’d like to sing out in support of this humble little meal. Picnics surely must be one of the simplest pleasures in life, a joyful celebration of food, nature and the great outdoors all rolled into one. I think it’s a shame to consign them to good weather only; like a barbecue, get your clothes and the food right and a picnic in the snow can be an amazing, life-affirming experience.

Redes Natural Park, the perfect spot for a picnic in the snow. A flask of piping hot squash and chilli soup really hit the spot. (I always carry a bin bag in my rucksack so there’s never a need for a wet backside wherever we stop to eat!)
Picnic places should always be interesting and a bit of shade is a bonus in the heat of summer.

There’s a lot to be said for a picnic breakfast, too! I also believe it’s well worth making a bit of effort over the food rather than defaulting to the ubiquitous sandwich, crisps and chocolate bar, for several reasons. First, there are far healthier, tastier and more interesting options. Second, knowing that your cool box, hamper, rucksack or whatever is full of delicious things to eat brings a wonderful sense of anticipation – especially important if you are hiking any distance first to earn it. Third, there is such a wealth of portable culinary possibilities to be explored and preparing tasty, wholesome food with love and attention, even in tiny quantities, is a lot of fun. Making full use of the freezer or drying and preserving our fresh produce means that even the most spontaneous of picnic decisions can be furnished with some yummy pre-prepared treats.

Dried slices of kiwi and shelled walnuts make perfect picnic treats from the garden.

Sam and Adrienne introduced us to the delights of spinach and goat’s cheese pasties on our rambles with them across the South Downs; they are fabulous finger food and we have enjoyed putting our own spin on that idea, using an Asturian sheep’s cheese and baby chard from the garden. Roger – who I swear has gone totally native – has taken to making bollos preñaos asturianos, hearty bread rolls with a lump of chorizo baked into the middle. I’m not a vegetarian but I do prefer my bread to be free of resident pig bits so for me, homemade hummus is the perfect picnic food. Hummus is the easiest thing on earth to make: for a basic recipe, simply take the vegetable of your choice and blitz it in a blender with a good dollop of tahini, garlic cloves, a glug of olive oil, a squeeze of lemon juice and salt and pepper to taste. Traditionally, of course, it’s based on chickpeas but really, let your imagination go wild with this one! We use white beans a lot because, unlike chickpeas, we grow them in the garden; I love carrot or beetroot, cooked or raw, whizzed up with coriander, cumin, walnuts and orange zest and juice, rather than lemon; peas and broad beans with mint, basil or dill make a sublime summer version. Mixes of leftover roast vegetables are fantastic. Honestly, if you can blitz it, you can hummus it! At this time of year, squash is on our to-use list every day; we still have a pile of them stored in the horreo and we know they won’t keep beyond May.

Just some of the squash we grew last year . . .

With the stove lit every evening, it’s no bother to throw together a tray of chopped squash (skin-on unless it’s a toughie), garlic cloves, chopped chillies (wowzer, my frozen Scotch bonnets from last year are really something else!) and whatever spices or herbs come to hand, then drizzle the lot in olive oil and roast until soft. This makes the perfect base for a soup – great in a thermos flask for picnics on cold days – but scraped into a blender and whizzed up into hummus, it is the stuff of dreams.

Homemade crispbreads, squash hummus and a lentil salad – perfect for lunch at home and equally good on the move.

All that’s missing now is a salad and what goes into that will depend very much on the season. If we are short of plentiful candidates from the garden, then something based on lentils or bulgar wheat makes a good, hearty base; otherwise, it’s a case of wandering about last-minute and picking a pot of fresh, tasty, colourful gorgeousness to complement the starchier elements. Salads hold up amazingly well on picnics; they even survive long walks in hot weather as long as they’re packed properly. Believe me, here is no excuse for soggy slices of cucumber and tomato. Ever. ¡Buen provecho! 🙂

This week’s salad from the garden: red mustard, red and green mizuna, shungiku, rocket (two types), landcress, komatsuna, pak choi, baby beetroot leaves, broccoli, peas, spring onions, mint, chives, coriander flowers and calendula petals. The only bought additions were olives and capers. Delicious eaten in the fresh sea air at Cabo Vidio!

High days and holidays

It is the height of the holiday season here. The village population seems to have quadrupled in recent weeks as families arrive in their droves to stay with parents and grandparents; holiday homes that have sat empty and forlorn for eleven months have their shutters thrown back, their gardens tidied; tents pop up in gardens overnight like so many brightly-coloured mushrooms. There is more traffic in the valley than the rest of the year put together. Fiesta rockets pop and crump in the distance. Excited children whizz about on bikes and splash merrily in paddling pools. The lanes are dotted with new walkers, cyclists, runners . . . the village dogs don’t know which way to turn first. There is a lively buzz about the place, busyness and chatter and laughter and music and the smell of barbecues. Summer has well and truly landed.

We know from experience that for us, August is a time to stay put. After all, we are lucky to be able to climb mountains, stroll along beaches and visit local places in quieter moments and cooler weather, so why join the crowds? Our food cupboards and freezer are well-stocked, the garden is bulging with fruit and vegetables and we want for nothing. We live in a gorgeous spot with plenty to keep us busy; there is no need to go anywhere.

Backtracking a little, and we did treat ourselves to a mini break in late July just ahead of the main holiday chaos. Having cycled up the Senda del Oso (Bear Trail) several weeks earlier, we decided to return with our tent and and camp at the very top end of the trail near the village of Entrago.

The campsite was very reminiscent of the basic rural ones we favoured when our children were little, camping in the quieter coastal spots of Pembrokeshire and Cornwall. No designated pitches, no electric hook-ups, definitely no shop or swimming pool: just a mown field with water and simple toilet and shower facilities. A captivating view from the tent door rendered the location complete!

I do have to confess, though, that unlike those Spartan days of yore that saw us sleeping on camping mats (or unreliable inflatable mattresses that inevitably went down in the night so I woke with one hip firmly embedded in the ground . . .), these days we do like a bit of comfort in the tent. To this end, several years ago we invested in a couple of canvas safari beds and with an old double futon mattress on top, a proper duvet, pillows and – yes! – crisp cotton sheets, it seems we can glamp with the best of them. A simple life doesn’t necessarily have to be uncomfortable, after all. 🙂

It might appear a bit odd camping somewhere not much more than an hour away from home but there were two good reasons for doing this. First, tempting though it is to get out and explore the entire Iberian Peninsula, we are well aware that there is still so much of Asturias we haven’t yet seen . . . and honestly, it never fails to deliver.

Also, staying for a couple of nights gave us the chance to ditch the car, pull on our rucksacks and stride out to really explore the area on foot, without having to drive home at the end of a long day.

The Bear Trail was certainly much busier than when we cycled it but once off that well-beaten track, we had the paths to ourselves. In fact, in two days of walking we literally didn’t meet another soul doing the same. The routes we took were all well-maintained and clearly marked, the scenery as ever quite stunning at each turn and the wildlife varied and abundant.

Following an ancient track which climbed a steep but blissfully green and shady valley to the medieval village of Bandujo, I wondered how many thousands of footsteps had passed that way before, how many lives and stories had been bound to that magical, leafy path.

The village itself was quite beautiful, perched on a mountainside with soaring views and, despite obvious (and necessary) modernisation, a profound sense of timelessness. We sat beneath the tower in the shade of an horreo and ate our picnic, watching a man scything grass on a slope so steep, it made our garden look like a stroll in the park. What a place this is!

Being close to the southern edge of Asturias, we decided our exploration wouldn’t be complete without climbing to Puerto de Ventana, the mountain pass at an altitude of 1,587 metres (5,206 feet) where Asturias meets the neighbouring province of León. A truly breathtaking panorama greeted us on our arrival, the majestic craggy mountains towering above a wide and open landscape, so very different to the lush, green one behind us.

In days gone by, los vaqueros from the plains below would, at the first snowfall, leave their wives to care for the children and farms in order to drive their cattle up through the pass to spend the winter months grazing in the kinder climate of Asturias. I was fascinated to read how the herd would be led by a matriarch (similar to elephants, I suppose) who would instinctively forge a safe path through snow that was often chest deep. I can’t even begin to imagine what an undertaking that journey was, how cold, difficult and fraught with danger it must have been. Right at the top of the pass, a group of several huge mountain dogs lazed in the sunshine like a pack of placid lions, totally indifferent to our presence . . . but the spiked metal collars round their necks were a reminder that even though the transhumance may no longer be so marked, the threat of wolves in the night is still very much there.

It’s funny how a short time away from home can feel like it was so much longer, perhaps because we managed to pack a lot of activities into a couple of days. It’s also the perfect way to have a holiday and know that the garden isn’t going to die of drought, neglect or wild boar visitations in our absence. Mind you, we did have visitors of another kind this week, not quite what we want to see mooching towards the vegetable patch – but maybe they felt it was time for them to have a holiday somewhere else, too?

The recent weather has been typical of the season, mostly very warm and dry with some days that hail a greater blast of heat, some that bring a dollop of rain. It’s the kind of weather that brings us beautiful skies . . .

. . . and sadly, not so beautiful ones: the plume in the middle of the photo below isn’t cloud but smoke from a huge fire. Thankfully, it’s the first wildfire we’ve seen this year but it was a massive one, taking the bomberos a whole day of fighting to bring it under control through their relentless shuttles between the fire and water reservoir in helicopters (and even an aeroplane this time).

It’s nice to think there may not be any more this year and certainly, waking to a day of steady rain yesterday brought a definite feeling of relief as the parched earth received a generous soaking.

I love the freshness such summer rain brings, the way everything responds and perks up after a good drink, the heady, spiced scents of wet earth and leaves and the renewed sweetness of raindrop-spattered flowers.

There is no more rain forecast for the next two weeks at least and with the heat set to build once more, it looks like we could be busy with the watering can in a while. In the meantime, we will continue enjoying our August staycation and all the natural blessings and beauty it brings. 🙂

Sunshine and soap

Sunshine is such a precious gift and never more so than at this time of year. We often celebrate with a special meal on the day of the winter solstice, or else ‘midwinter’ three days later, the point at which it is possible to tell that the sun has begun its journey north once more; as that coincided with Christmas Eve this year, we decided to have our feast on Nochebuena in the local way. For me, it is a deeply meaningful celebration, an acknowledgement of the way in which sunlight is essential to all life and the key to our very being. The worst of winter is ahead but after that, spring will come once more.

Although the shorter days see the natural world slowing down here after summer’s frantic activity, things are far from dormant. The garden still jingles with birdlife: blackbirds and blackcaps already staking their claim to the kiwis; robins bobbing across the mulched bare earth in search of skinny pink worms; chaffinches and great tits call in simple cadences whilst long-tailed tits chatter sociably through their acrobatics. I love the quiet charm of tiny green warblers, the cheekiness of wrens, the bravado of goldfinches and bluster of bullfinches who, even though they are stealing buds from the peach trees, are forgiven purely for their vibrant beauty. Above us, ravens croak and cough in high places, raptors soar and swoop on spiral trajectories and the silent, spectral heron stalks the river bank below. There is a pageant of colour and show in the floral world, too. No need for poinsettias here.

Lizards are basking in sunny spots, moles are making merry in the loamy earth and where ditches hold water they are gelled with frogspawn. We were woken by the persistent barking of a huge dog fox in the meadow behind the house and watched him through an open window, silvered in moonlight, as his confident call reverberated around the valley. Pure magic. As if the sun itself is honouring the season, we have been treated to a week of spectacular sunsets; I have watched mesmerised as clouds have mingled and morphed and colours bled and changed and deepened in a transient canvas of sheer artistry. No need for tinsel and fairy lights, either.

With Christmas Day free from distraction, we took a flask of coffee and headed out to walk along a path which circles the mountain opposite. It is a walk I love, following the curving contours of the mountain and enjoying stunning views of the sunlit valley below and distant peaks fading into hazy blues.

What sheer delight to feel the warmth of that sun! We walked long stretches without speaking, not because we had nothing to say to one another but simply because the silence was so profound; no sound of man or machine, not so much as a cat’s paw of wind in the trees . . . so perfectly quiet we could hear the flutter of butterflies passing on their drowsy wings. The air was suffused with the aromatic spicy scents of sun-warmed pine and eucalyptus; I often wonder if our distinct lack of colds and winter bugs has anything to do with this daily dose of nature’s own aromatherapy?

At one point along the ridge it is possible to look across and see our little white house nestled in the meadows below sweeps of forest. What always strikes me about this view is just how high the mountain stretches away from us and how wild and untamed the countryside becomes just minutes from our door. We are so blessed to live in such a place.

This warm, dry, settled weather seemed just perfect for taking my first tentative steps into the world of soap making. It’s something I’ve often thought of doing but have backed away from because I know that lye is nasty stuff. That said, we no longer have small children or pets to worry about and I am a grown up after all, so the time had come to give it a go. Projects like this always excite me; like dyeing wool, making soap is a fascinating mix of science and art and leaves me pondering its intriguing history. How did someone discover that running rainwater through wood ash and mixing the resulting lye with fat could make something so useful? My intention was to use ingredients we had to hand to make a very basic ‘kitchen cupboard’ soap, one that would give me an idea of how the process works without involving any fancy stuff; my thinking was that if it wasn’t very good, I could at least use it for laundry. To that end, I chose to use olive oil, sunflower oil, coconut oil and sweet almond oil with lemon essential oil for a subtle fragrance and antibacterial qualities; no colourants whatsoever.

Soap making requires distilled water. Our water comes into the house directly from a mountain spring so it is free of the chemicals found in mains water, very soft and mineral-rich . . . and that is a problem. Minerals in the water can affect how the lye behaves and can also cause ‘dreaded orange spots’ to appear as the soap cures. As the idea of buying plastic bottles of distilled water somehow seemed to go against the whole ethos of my project, I decided to make my own. I floated a heatproof glass bowl in a stockpot of water, brought it to the boil, inverted the lid and piled it with ice. Within half an hour, my bowl was full of distilled water . . . and as we have a plentiful supply of free water and free heat when The Beast is lit, this is a very sustainable method – and adds to the fun, too!

Having gathered everything I needed, I decided to set up my chemistry lab outside; I always prefer to do things outdoors when I can anyway and it made sense not to be creating unpleasant fumes in the house if it wasn’t necessary. Working in long sleeves, gloves, goggles and mask isn’t the most comfortable of situations but from my experiences in activities like dyeing and beekeeping I recognise the good sense in a disciplined approach to safety – better to feel slightly encumbered than suffer a chemical burn or lose an eye.

Unfortunately, at this point my trusty Technical Support Manager discovered that the adaptor plug I needed for our long extension had blown a fuse and we had no replacement to hand; this meant I couldn’t use the hand blender outside so a change of plan was needed – cue carting most of that stuff back up fourteen steps to the kitchen! I could still mix the lye and water outside, however, and this I did; I didn’t see any fumes given off but the rapid appearance of condensation on the bowl certainly suggested an energetic exothermic reaction was well under way. While the lye cooled, I mixed the oils together and heated them gently to melt the coconut oil.

Then for the exciting bit, starting the saponification process. I slowly stirred the lye into the oils then got busy with the hand blender. At first, the mixture looked like a thin pancake batter but within moments had thickened to a light ‘trace’ – leaving a faint trail like a whisked sponge mixture.

This indicated that the water and oils had emulsified: the point of no return. I added the essential oil and blended a little bit more until the batter was thick and creamy, then poured it into silicone moulds; covered and left in the warmth of the kitchen, I needed to leave them for them for at least 24 hours to set . . . oh, the anticipation!

The moment of truth. I’m not sure whether I was nervous, excited or both but the soaps felt firm enough, so I took a deep breath and carefully turned them out of their moulds.

Amazing! I mean, obviously I knew I was trying to make soap and having read a couple of books and watched zillions of video clips, I was hopeful it would work . . . but isn’t it a lovely thing to try something so new and different, to watch a fascinating process unfold right in front of your eyes? The soaps looked and smelt like creamy lemon panna cotta, almost good enough to eat, and I was desperate to dive in and have a good wash! We could use them now but they are better if cured and will last longer in the shower that way. I’ve put them on an airy shelf in the airing cupboard (yes, we have one in the bathroom at last . . . also, we have a bathroom :-)) where they can stay for the next four to six weeks. I’m turning them daily and watching for changes in their texture and appearance; if the dreaded orange spots appear, we can still use them but I might have to rethink my distilled water plan for future projects. So far, so good.

Encouraged by my initial success, I’m now eagerly awaiting a parcel of new and more exciting ingredients so I can have a go at making solid shampoo bars. In the meantime, I’m wandering around the garden, lanes and woodland wondering what natural resources I might be able to use in creating my own toiletries.

What a wonderful excuse for being outside, filling my lungs with fresh mountain air, turning my face to the sun, drinking in the views and feeling such overwhelming joy at being alive. January might be looming, but my heart and soul are singing with soap and sunshine. Happy New Year, one and all!:-)

Ramblings

In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks. 

John Muir

I love a good walk. I run regularly because I appreciate the health benefits it brings but given the opportunity to put one foot in front of the other at a more leisurely pace, I’m first in the queue. For me, it’s such a simple, lovely activity that fulfils my fidgety need to be outdoors and moving . Of course it’s interesting to set personal challenges but there’s no need to be bagging Wainwrights or marching up Monros; it’s always fun to explore new places but in all honestly, there is a deep pleasure and quiet joy to be had by going through the door, choosing a direction and wandering around locally. To immerse myself totally in nature and watch the seasons unfolding in tiny detail is a privilege I will never take for granted.

Human beings are designed to move so it goes without saying that walking is good for us, both physically and mentally. I was fascinated and delighted to read recently that GPs in the Shetland Isles have started prescribing ‘nature’ to help their patients. What a truly wonderful and inspired idea that is. No surprise that it is based on a Scandinavian tradition; let’s face it – our northern cousins excel when it comes to understanding the true benefits of time spent outdoors and how much better if walking in fresh air and communing with nature proves a more successful remedy than medication.

I suspect there is an element of ‘prescribed nature’ here already. Walking is a huge Asturian pastime and plenty of people pass through the village on their daily jaunt, many of them very elderly; we often see a lady who walks literally miles on crutches and a chap who carries an oxygen bottle over his shoulder as he goes. There’s no such thing as bad weather stopping play, either – just take your brolly and carry on! I can’t be sure but a big part of me thinks there may well be a connection between this happy walking habit and the astonishing longevity in our valley.

Although I am happy to wander in solitude, there is something very special about walking with others, too. It came as no great surprise when downloading the photos from our recent trip away to find most of them had been taken on walks. I love walking with our grandchildren; there is something so precious about feeling a warm, trusting little hand in mine, now tugging me along (‘Come on, Granny!’) impatient to be off with a hop, skip and jump, now dragging backwards to look at things, poke with sticks, splash in puddles.

What an amazing thing it is, this opportunity to see the world once again through the eyes of a child, with their astounding capacity for observation, curiosity and wonder.

A long walk is a much-loved tradition whenever we get together with Sam and Adrienne, usually punctuated with large quantities of delicious home-cooked food! This time was no exception: a hearty breakfast of all-too-moorish pain aux raisins set us up for a walk along the River Ouse to Lewes. So many of our walks in West (and East) Sussex seem to have a literary connection and this time it was the turn of Virginia Woolf, passing the pretty house in Rodmell where she lived before tragically taking her own life in the river. The waters were turbulently tidal, the banks seaweed- strewn and studded with gulls; the view drew our eye constantly towards Lewes in the distance, dominated by its formidable Norman castle.

There is something about this landscape which always imbues me with an overwhelming sense of history; the very spirit of the rolling hills, chalk streams, swathes of woodland, richly fertile land and wide, far-reaching skies seems to whisper of the successive peoples who came and made it their own. 

Lewes has a very colourful history, one of the legacies being the lively Bonfire Night celebration; preparations were well underway for this year’s event as we entered the town. We sat in the peaceful grounds of the Priory, eating our picnic (ah yes, more delicious home baking!) and enjoyed the play of sunlight on the autumn colours.

What a place this must have been before its inevitable destruction during the Dissolution of the Monasteries: the Priory church alone was longer than Chichester Cathedral. I was fascinated by the Battle Memorial and as a passionate gardener, thought the medicinal and kitchen gardens were a wonderful touch. We wandered through the pretty streets up to the castle, then back along the river once more. 



Home again in Asturias and no surprise that to celebrate my birthday this week, another walk was on the cards. My first idea had been to wander from home and climb the mountain behind the house in a seven-mile loop of forest and stunning scenery. However, the need for a post office and butter (we hadn’t taken account of birthday baking needs when we last shopped!) suggested a long stroll along the coast path near Luarca might be a better idea. I love this stretch between the beautiful sweeping sands of Playa de Barayo and the pretty harbour town of Puerto de Vega, it is a place I never tire of.


For me, this is exactly how a coast path should be: lots of ups and downs along the clifftops, ins and outs around headlands and hidden coves, far-reaching views along the coastline, carpets of wildflowers, flurries of birdlife and that deliciously intoxicating sea air. I much prefer the seaside away from the hectic summer months, there is something fantastically wild and untamed and invigorating about it in December . . . although quite honestly, the weather was so beautifully warm and the air so soft and butterfly-laden, it felt just like summer! 

Immersion in nature here is complete. Apart from a few solitary silhouetted fisherman perched on rocky outcrops, motionless as herons, we saw no-one. In the soft sunshine and low light of the season, colour spooled across the landscape like bold brushstrokes on canvas and with every step and every breath I felt an intense awareness of the four elements at play. Fire. Water. Earth. Air. What greater way to mark the anniversary of my birth than in such a joyful celebration of the natural world and my connection with all things in the worldwide web of life? Good medicine, indeed.

To round off a perfect day – before cooking a lovely meal together –  a glass of bubbly in the garden, faces turned to the warmth of the evening sunshine. Nature, it seemed, hadn’t quite finished with us . . . 

Ah, John Muir certainly knew what he was talking about. Here’s to him! 🙂

Simple p-leisures

One of the best things for me about being with family and friends is the opportunity to indulge in shared interests; simple things, little leisure pursuits and happy hours that make wonderful memories. When we get together with Sam and Adrienne, walking, cooking and sharing good food and music are pretty much guaranteed to be top of the list and the few days we have just spent together were no exception.

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One of our top priorities was the long-awaited trip to the Cabo Busto cake shop  where we had promised to treat our visitors to a belated birthday cake (and of course, it would have been very rude of us not to join them!). What an amazing place it is, set in a village house brightly painted in red and green and run by a friendly and talented young couple who are very happy to explain what each cake is made from and to (thankfully) allow customers plenty of time to choose. These are not so much cakes as exquisite works of  art and trying to pick one from the gorgeous selection is demanding stuff! After much deliberation, Adrienne was thrilled to indulge in a creation made entirely from almonds (bottom left); Sam opted for the sumptuous dark chocolate hit (top left); Roger plumped for a most beautiful confection celebrating honey (top right) and- no surprise- I was drawn to that soft, summery shortbread topped with a beguiling little heartsease flower. You are welcome to eat your choices in the pretty garden from which the flower was picked but we opted to savour them in a beauty spot by the sea. What a great start to our long weekend!

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Staying with the coastal theme, we took the incredibly steep path down to Playa de Gueirúa, a beach which fascinates me not least because the tide seems to come in from two directions.

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Adrienne and I share a love of pretty pebbles so while Roger and Sam explored the beach and cliffs, we were happy to pootle about looking for examples of interesting colours and patterns, texture and sparkle.

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Sam’s interest in the stones veered more towards practising his skimming skills; he also played chicken with the tide and lost, soaking his enormous walking boots in salt water. I was reminded of a phase in his childhood when we didn’t go anywhere (and I mean anywhere) without a complete change of clothes and footwear for him because he always managed to end up soaking wet, even where there was apparently no water. I smiled to see there is still a whisper of the little boy in the man he has become! (By the way, in case you are wondering –  he isn’t wearing a kilt in any of these photos, it’s a tartan shirt tied round his waist.)

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Another day, another walk, this time up the río Esva gorge. It was the second time in three weeks for Roger and myself but I don’t think we could ever tire of such a beautiful spot. It was interesting to see how things had moved on since our previous walk  despite the recent inclement weather. The flowers were not quite as spectacular but it was good to see that new little stars had opened.

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Heavy rain had certainly swollen the river which literally boomed down the gorge in a state of white rage and water seemed to ooze from every pore in the rocks. There was a fair bit of scrambling over rocks to be done, but ironically it was the flights of steps and boardwalks made from local oak rather than the rocks that were lethally slippery.

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With this in mind, we decided not to return the same way but to take a longer route back up  and over the mountain. Well, why not? We had plenty of time after all. Plenty of food, too. Last time we did this walk together, we left the picnic in the car not realising quite how long we would be; oh my goodness, we were all so hungry and grumpy by the time we had finished! So, fortified by a wonderful spread – little dishes left over from a tapas evening, homemade sourdough rolls, a very gooey, fruity, seed-laden flapjack, peaches and apricots – eaten at a picnic table under the trees, we set off up the mountain. It’s a steep old climb but well worth the effort as the views from the top are completely stunning and once again, we had the place totally to ourselves – just the birds and insects for company. Perfect.

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Crossing the river for the final time, it was decided that a game of poohsticks was needed. This is the kind of nonsense we love, something that is simple, free and – let’s be honest – rather pointless, but which always gives rise to silly banter and much laughter. The competitors readied themselves at the start line . . .

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. . . then dashed to the other side of the bridge to eagerly await the arrival of their sticks.

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Braveheart thought he had it in the bag . . .

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. . . but victory was snatched from him in the last seconds by Adrienne, the reigning poohstick champion (who was very demure and restrained in her celebration, as you can see).

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Ah, time to go home and light the barbecue . . . which in reality ended up being the stove when torrential rain set in yet again, this time with a a dose of thunderstorms for good measure. 😦

We weren’t downhearted, though, as the next day took us to the Muniellos nature reserve in southern Asturias for a walk that promised to be rather special. For a start, only twenty people a day are allowed to do it; access is strictly by prior permission from the government and you can only apply once in any year so we felt very lucky to have obtained the necessary permits. The walk follows a 20km mountain trail to an altitude of 1400 metres through the largest oak forest in Spain and some of the most ancient and primitive woodland in Europe. The bald facts, however, don’t even begin to describe the sheer beauty and majesty of this place. The views are utterly breathtaking: mile upon mile of unbroken forest sweeping right to the tops of the towering mountains; given some of these are roughly a couple of Snowdons high, that’s pretty impressive.

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I have often struggled to convey the green-ness of Asturias but here it surpassed everything I have seen so far. From the ancient oaks with their massive hollow boles (some are six metres in diameter) to graceful birch, brooding holly and yew, glossy beech and hazel and a wealth of lush undergrowth there was just layer upon layer of green. Imagine an ancient oak, its gnarled bark wrapped in mosses with ferns growing from the cracks and silvered lichen dripping from every branch; magical, indeed.

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This walk is not for the fainthearted; in fact, there are strict rules as to who can and can’t do it, and for good reason. Distance and steep climb aside, the path is hard going in many places, narrow and precipitous and often becoming a scramble across scree slopes or rock faces above vertiginous drops. I don’t usually carry a stick when I walk but this was one place I was happy to have my sturdy Asturian pole in hand!

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One of the outstanding features of the forest is the complete lack of human inhabitants and minimal human impact; here nature calls the tune and there is a wealth of natural beauty to appreciate and enjoy.

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What a privilege to walk back in time and experience the northern forests of centuries ago, the pure scale and unspoilt wildness of it all. No wonder this is where the largest concentration of bears chooses to live. No wonder so much hard work goes into preserving this sacred space. What a very precious place it is. Paradise indeed.

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Having shared a picnic lunch at the highest point, we started our three-hour descent with an hour’s scramble down a rocky stream bed, balancing on slippery boulders and trying to avoid wet feet. If you are very tall with huge feet, then straddling a stream is easy . . .

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. . . but if you are shorter with smaller feet, things can be a bit trickier.

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There were several times when I almost got very wet (the worst being later on when I lost my footing next to the much wider and deeper river); I was just hoping that in a timely role reversal, Sam had a change of clothes and footwear for me in that bag! If I’m absolutely honest, I wouldn’t have minded getting wet; it wasn’t cold and it would have been worth it for the amazing day we had spent together. On our return, the warden encouraged us to apply again in a year’s time and I know we will, maybe in autumn next time as the colours must be truly spectacular then.

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So to our final jaunt, a walk along the beach at San Juan de Arena and another picnic before trundling to the airport. The sea was wild and moody, the beach empty and invigorating but sadly, due to a minor technical hitch with the camera, I have no photos to share. Never mind; I have captured the moment in my memory and that, after all, is what counts. 🙂

 

 

Nature’s garden: Part 3

Yesterday as we rambled and scrambled up the dramatic and somewhat vertiginous gorge of the río Esva,  I promised myself that I would not obsess about the wild flowers and trees and I would definitely not feel the urge to write a blog post about them. Um, right. As you can see, my resolve didn’t last more than a few moments. Honestly, it’s like dangling an exquisite yarn in front of me: in the presence of so much colour and texture and downright gorgeousness, my willpower fades away like morning mist.

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So, as in the very best fairy tales and oration good things always come in threes, here is the final part of my ‘wild flowers and walking’ trilogy set in yet another contrasting landscape. This is a world of river and rockface, of high and dry light-flooded spaces and deep, damp, mossy places. Here the woodland scrambles to dizzy heights, clinging to the ragged rock strata in an astonishing festival of verdant celebration. Here the river, wide and clear, tumbles and rumbles over boulders, gouging its sinuous path out of the jagged landscape. Here sleek otters play, bibbed dippers bob, carefree sand martins wheel and spin in an exhibition of masterful aerobatics. Here, once again, nature has demonstrated its artistic prowess in sweeps of breath-taking floral artistry.

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Truly magical! 🙂

 

 

Nature’s garden: the sequel

I had no intention of making a series of wildflowers-and-walking posts but honestly, how could I not share another treasure chest of floral riches? In complete contrast to our coastal walk, this time we headed to the high mountains and ancient deciduous woodlands of southern Asturias: in short, serious bear country. Here lives the largest concentration of the rare Cantabrian brown bear (oso pardo) in Asturias and who could blame them?

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Roger and I last walked here in the autumn when the trees were all blazing in their flaming autumnal flamboyance; it was fascinating to return in such a different season, especially as the effect of altitude spun us backwards in time to enjoy an earlier taste of spring once again. The overwhelming star of the landscape for me, though, was the Spanish heath, swathes and swathes of gorgeous magenta draping the mountains like an opulent cloak above the greenery. Breathtaking.

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If only I could have captured the tumultuous sound of countless bees going about their business in those  purple bells. No wonder there were so many hives there, not scattered across the mountainsides higgeldy-piggeldy but organised behind electric fences or the protection of traditional stone walls circles. Bears and honey are a classic combination, after all!

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The extent of the forests is awe-inspiring, so stunning clothed in the bright greens of springtime. The oaks, however, were a little tardy with just the first hint of leaves unfurling; hung with filigree silver lichens, they made an ethereal contrast to the burgeoning glossy greens around them.

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There were flowers here, too; so many gentle splashes of colour and perfume to delight the senses. A softer palette to the coastal flowers, a pretty parade of graceful woodland beauties; once again, I was in awe of nature’s exquisite gardening prowess.

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¡Gracias, Asturias!

Nature’s garden

Walking between Puerto de Vega and Playa de Frejulfe, we were treated to a breathtakingly sumptuous array of wild flowers.

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Blankets of pastel pink thrift and snowy sea campion drifted across the clifftops and stitched between them were skeins and spots of so many other plants, creating a rich embroidery where even the mundane shone to full effect. What a wonderful floral fabric of colour and scent, texture and form and all set against that stunning blue-drenched backdrop of sky and sea.

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This is coastal Asturias it its best; we might not have the scope for a sweeping flower garden at home but who needs one when we have such natural beauty on our doorstep? 🙂

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