This is the story of our third trip to Spain (the first took us over the Pyrenees in 1988, the second to Benidorm in 1990).

The 1994 Spanish experience involved a Brittany Ferries package. This included ferry tickets for us and the car (a metallic green Peugeot, who went by the name of Puglet), plus vouchers for accommodation at simple hotels, which you arranged with the individual establishments. I don't know how far ahead we were supposed to organize this, but when we tried to book as we went along, we found we had a lot less flexibility than we'd anticipated, and rather than moving on every couple of nights, we ended up staying longer than planned near Cangas de Onis. We also added a couple of nights' camping to the start of the trip.

This was the era of 20 days' annual leave, which is not ungenerous by the standards of some countries, but certainly left keen travellers with little in the way of wiggle-room. We absolutely did NOT spend leave days doing DIY or lolling at home... And I put a lot of effort into making sure we were optimizing our holiday allocation and limited budget.

So Friday 10 June saw us loading up the car after work, driving to Portsmouth, and spending the night on the ferry to St Malo. The way to make this an enjoyable part of the holiday is to book a cabin with a window, and buy some whisky from the duty-free...

I'll let my diary take over:

Saturday 11 June

The islands of St Malo were parading past our cabin window when we woke.

We did our usual things in this lovely port. It's our little ritual, and I love it: cafe au lait and croissants at the Lion d'Or, a walk round the ramparts, some window-shopping, and the Buying of the First Baguette.

Then we were on the road. We stopped for a picnic lunch. And we took another break in a little town in the Vendee. Even ordinary towns are nice to stroll around in France. I love French houses, with their shutters and their windows, and on every holiday I fall in love with at least six. And we bought a massive brioche for tomorrow's breakfast, and croissants aux amandes for today's afternoon tea...

Then on again. Roses everywhere. French roses must be having a very special year. Poppies in the corn. Sunshine. Tree-lined roads.

We stopped at Niort to buy a CD that I wanted. We eventually tracked it down, at the second Leclerc we tried, along with a couple of books, just to keep my stocks up.

And on again. This was Pineau country, though we didn't buy any.

We set up camp for the night at Cognac. Very quiet and pleasant, down by the river. We cooked up on our trusty Trangia, and drank our first bottle of excellent (and cheap) French wine.

There is a camping kitten on this site. He loves it here: there are so many things to pounce on, stalk, and play with. He gets into everything. We still marvel at the concept of a camping cat. Ours would hate it so much.

Sunday 12 June

The breakfast brioche was excellent...

We struck camp, and then the odyssey continued.

The character of the landscape definitely became more southern after Cognac. We saw not only more vineyards, but also trees shaped like bottle-brushes and red pantile roofs.

At a village bakery, we acquired bread and strawberry tartlets. It was European election day in France today, so everyone was trooping out to vote.

In another village further on, we sat in the sun to eat our patisserie, while watching the brisk trade at the shellfish stall in the market.

We made a third stop in St Macaire. This is a curious town, with a steep drop from its ramparts to the valley below. After a bit more walking, we treated ourselves to a citron presse in the cafe on the square.

On again, though the Landes behind Bordeaux, to Pau, and our first view of the mountains. We'd seen them from Pau that first time we'd visited Spain, but I'd forgotten how big they appear. They seem to suddenly be there, enormous, rising from nothing.

A little further along the "road to the Spanish frontier", as the signposts put it, we stopped for bread, exceedingly runny Camembert, and a great view. The pass road is lovely, boasting stunning outlooks, a tight little gorge, snow-sheds, and grass like Alpine pasture at the top. Unfortunately, it's quite busy.

The route carried on being spectacular as we made our way to Torla and the Ordesa National Park. The sun was full on these enormous granite mountains, towering over us.

It was not easy finding a campsite. The first possibility was up a dirt road in the wrong direction; the second was closed; the third was also empty and pretty abandoned-looking; and the fourth we couldn't find -- we plunged down a steep road to the valley floor, but there was no sign of tents anywhere.

Eventually we went on to Broto. Again, there was no sign of a campsite, but we followed the signs to the Camping Oto. A disconcertingly windy road took us right through the heart (and almost the front rooms) of the little village of Oto, perched on its mountainside. Just as we were feeling we were on a wild goose-chase again, there was the camp-site, looking very much open, with jolly flags fluttering outside.

Tuna baguette and Gros Plant for supper. Spectacular views, but a chilly wind. We're definitely in the mountains.







Monday 13 June

We were enticed out of our tent by the appearance of the sun over the mountains, a cloudless blue sky, and the song of the birds. The bell in the village gives the occasional bong. My shorts still fit (just), and all is rosy...

The camp-site is totally quiet. Nigel is cooking up breakfast, which consists of our camping stalwart: tinned curry and potatoes. When the sun is warm, camping is the best thing in the world.

Once the food was consumed, we checked out Broto. A very successful expedition. We managed to get money from a machine, bread from a panaderia (no shop window, very dark, and when you eventually get in, there's one old lady who keeps the bread under the counter), and a newspaper to tell us about the Euro-elections.


Oto



Then followed the most amazing walk through the Ordesa Park. I lack superlatives to describe it. The scenery is just grand: wonderful waterfalls; mixed forest; an incredible gorge, with sheer, massive, sculpted sides, eventually opening out to pasture (with beautifully shaded beige and fawn cows, complete with calves and cowbells); and a fantastic mountain cirque.

The weather was perfect: warm, but not too hot. We had a good picnic, sitting by the side of the river amid an incredible profusion of flowers and butterflies. All through southern France and now still in Spain, we've been seeing birds of prey. I don't know what they are, but they fascinate me, with their powerful, easy flight, and their superb control as they dive.

We decided to take the adventurous route back. This took us up onto the other side of the valley, where the path hugs the top of the tree line, and you feel a bit more up with the action after a long time down at the bottom. We were treated to more marvellous views down to the valley, with the river falling in steps, so amazingly even and horizontal you can hardly believe they are natural.

The descent was a killer... The path just plunges straight down from the mirador at the top to the carpark at the bottom. Grinding on the knees, and slow, because there are lots of loose stones, and it's easy to lose your footing. At the bottom, the sign said "muy peligroso" ("very dangerous"). Pity it didn't say that at the top...

We did some more shopping in Broto, and rounded off this excellent day with local bread, cheese, and rose wine.

Verdict: one of the best day walks I've ever done.









Tuesday 14 June

An early start today because we had a long drive ahead. Breakfast on the hoof (magdalenas and mineral water).

The journey was hot and tiring once the sun got going [our cars didn't have aircon in those days]. But it offered an excellent, comprehensive view of the scenery of northern Spain. Once we emerged from the Pyrenees, and into the high-but-not-quite-so-high mountains, the trees became much rarer, and disappeared altogether over vast tracts of land. Everything seemed dry to a greater or lesser degree, mostly arid and scrubby. The colours were muted yellows, russets, ochres, browns, and beiges, relieved by the odd grassy areas, and groves of vines and olives. Everywhere, mountains -- craggy or slag-heap-shaped -- form the backdrop to the views. Perched on many of the lower ones are buildings, sometimes whole towns and villages. They don't have to worry so much about by-passes in Spain. By the time they came to build the roads, it was impossible to drive them through these impenetrable eyries. It's country with real grandeur -- awe-inspiring, the stuff of dramas.

Until Logrono we were following the pilgrims' way, and saw many churches, and also the ancient Puente la Reina. All tantalizing, but that's for another holiday. It must have been hard, slogging over this hot, dry country. We did stop for a break at Estella, which has lovely, ochre buildings: a palace, churches, the pilgrims' street.

We pulled off the road onto a farm track to eat the lunch we'd acquired in Estella. There we sat, on our garden chairs, in our sunhats, looking out over the vines to the wide, dry panorama below, enjoying our bread and cheese -- and being overwhelmed by thunder-flies. We must have eaten hundreds.

On the road again. Eventually, the trees return. And at long last, we emerge onto the Burgos-Santander route. We remembered this green, grassy, wooded valley from last time, and the long drop of the road. We both had sore ears from the descent.

So we arrived at the Colegiata in Santillana del Mar, hot, and overwhelmingly in need of a shower. After that, we put in the hours before dinner with whisky aperitifs, a little route-planning, and a lie-down. Dinner is late in Spain. We didn't start until about 9.15 pm. It was a slightly curious meal: fish terrine, scrambled eggs with prawns, and ice-cream cake. But it was pleasant enough, and there was a nice house white to go with it, and good coffee afterwards.

We like it here. It's a pity we can't stay another night. There are lots of English, of course. I suppose that's going to be one of the hazards of this package arrangement.

Wednesday 15 June

I woke early. The sun is shining; the birds are twittering. We have a beautiful view down to the town in the little valley. Behind are the mountains.

Today has been rest and recovery day. We pottered round Santillana, which is spectacularly well preserved, but touristically inclined, unfortunately. There are lovely old houses, with overhanging roofs; gardens glimpsed through gateways; and heavy doors opening onto closed, cobbled courtyards.

Then we moved on to Comillas, and spent the afternoon relaxing on the beach between Comillas and Vicente de la Barquera. Nigel grubbed in rock pools, and I sat in the sun (which was just the right temperature, tempered by the light breeze), and wrote my postcards [so quaint...]. The water was a beautiful colour, but the rollers and the breeze didn't tempt me to swim. There were a few other people, but not many by our set of rocks. Perhaps they were frightened off by Nigel's grubbing.



Our hotel is right by the beach at Poo. We ate early to avoid the dire effects of late meals and late alcohol. And we pottered out to the beach, now almost empty, and absolutely lovely -- a real surprise. We paddled a little way up the creek, and sat on a rock, watching the sun sink below the opposite headland. Then we climbed up the headland on our side, gaining views of the sun going down over yet more headlands. Idyllic. The coast is strewn with rocky islands. In the background are the mountains, which come very close to the sea at this point. The one just at the back of us is higher than Ben Nevis.

We're now in the province of Asturias. Yesterday, we started in Aragon, and travelled through Navarra, La Rioja, Castilla y Leon, and Cantabria. We're now piecing together our plans for the rest of the trip. Suddenly there's only a week left.



Thursday 16 June

Yesterday evening, we told ourselves we would go for a morning swim in our creek. "The air will be cool, so the water will feel nice and warm," said Nigel, the voice of authority. In fact, at 8 am, the sun was already warm, and the water, fresh from the Bay of Biscay, and unwarmed by any heated sand, was breath-takingly cold... We inched in, painfully, and did actually swim. But not for long...

We set off next for the Picos de Europa. A successful shop in Cangas de Onis (where they have an impressive restored Roman bridge) procured us both lunch and a comprehensive book of local walks. This book -- ironically, since we were so pleased with it -- proved the undoing of the day.

We drove along the Los Beyos defile. This is a spectacular gorge, with wonderful changing scenery all the way.





Then we tried a walk. Failure number one: the start of the walk was a refuge up a long, winding, unmade track that Puglet, despite bravely trying, just couldn't manage. And if we'd walked the track, we wouldn't have had time to walk the walk... Retreat.

Back along the defile to try another one. Again, the start was up a long, winding road. This road was made-up, but single-track, with bend after bend, and so steep that Puglet could make progress only in first gear. I was driving at this point, and I really hate roads like that. So, in rapid succession, as the day was now sticky and the circumstances fraught, I got hot and bothered, Nigel got hot and tired, and poor Puglet just got hot. Abandonment of second walk.

We stopped in a village to let Puglet cool down (and to muse about why people build villages in terrain like that, and how they can bear to slog up and down these roads...). By this time, we had no spirit left for undertaking anything.

Friday 17 June

Breakfast allegedly started at 8 am, but the staff were still cleaning the bar when we arrived, bright and British, to claim our morning food.

The weather has changed. It's cloudy, and there is still a light mist. I have a slight dread hanging over me of impossible roads and impossible walks (Nigel's lighted on a seven-hour, grade 3 walk that starts at the top of a road marked with red dots on the map). I'm also haunted by the impending end of the holiday. It's already half over...

Well, it turned out to be a brilliant walk. Up the curvy road to the lakes, one panorama succeeding another, and the cloud clearing. We had our lunch by the water, accompanied by the constant clanking of cow-bells. Then off up the track. It was warm. Everywhere were wonderful flowers, and shifting scenes of limestone, worn and chiselled in a thousand different forms. We saw three different kinds of lizard (a green one, a black one, and a spectacular yellow-and-black-striped one).





We crossed a meadow with stone herders' huts. People were working there with their sheep and cows. Every species that is domesticated has a bell -- sheep, cows, goats. The bim-bam is part of the mountains, unforgettable.

Up, up to the refuge, from where we were going to climb the local mountain. There had been rumbles of thunder in the distance for a while, but as we took a break, the storm became more apparent. We set off a little way along the track, but the cloud was swirling in, the thunder was crashing, and the rocks were becoming slippery, so we decided to give up this part of the expedition.

















In fact, the rain really did come down, and we took refuge under a big rock that the sheep had been using for shelter when we passed by the first time. For a while we watched the wet hikers go by, and the rivulets form. Then on again. At times the path was a quagmire of sticky, slippery, clingy clay. Not pleasant. But we made it back.

Despite the weather at the end, we count the walk as a big success. There was lots to see and hear, and the changing scenery, as it veered from peaceable and pleasant to ominous and brooding, was impressive to say the least.

We shopped for tea in Cangas de Onis on the way home, and spent our evening in our little closed-in balcony, eating cheese and bread, and drinking wine. We appreciate the little living area we have at our disposal, even if it does face the main road.

Saturday 18 June

We started at the El Buxu cave. It's all very informal. You ask for the guide at the house further down, and when she's had her breakfast, she comes and follows you up the beautiful, wooded hill to her cave. There are drawings and engravings. Some are crystal-clear representations of their objects; some are magic symbols. The people then were apparently only 1.5 metres. Even so, it must have been uncomfortable, crouching to create this art by the light of torches. Why did they do it? Is this what makes humans human? What were their lives like? So many questions.

Then to another manifestation of humanity, equally mysterious: the Covadonga shrine.

[And here my later self wants to insert a chastened apology... This paragraph sounds horribly judgemental and closed. I like to think I've grown up a bit since I wrote this. These days, certainly, I love this kind of place...]

The overall attraction is that this is the area where King Pelayo started to force back the "infidel", and he is shown in statue form, his hand raised over the remarkable, plunging valley. But the chief draw is the sacred cave, where Our Lady of Covadonga is housed. Coachloads of people were arriving, pouring into the basilica and along the tunnel to the cave. There are signs asking you to be silent, but every now and then a crude loudspeaker booms out an exhortation not to take photos, or announce some other such restriction. The virgin is surrounded by flowers, but decked out in hideously gaudy robes. Below is a pool where people throw money, and a spring of water -- I suppose holy -- that people drink. People have their photos taken perched on the edge. Everywhere are souvenir shops, selling the most deplorable tat, and flocks of nuns, of various affiliations. We had a quiet look in the basilica, where worshippers were already taking their places for the next mass. Priests sat in the confession boxes ready to shrive their flock, reading magazines while they waited. Outside, a group of youngsters, the Oviedo dance group of Our Lady of Covadonga, performed traditional dances. It was all extraordinary. More questions. Chiefly, why?

We bought some of the famous blue Cabrales cheese from Arenas de Cabrales, and then walked up the gorge from Poncebos to Bulnes. Up was the operative word. Quite a long climb, on quite a rough track. There was a thunderstorm at the top; the rain poured down, as only mountain rain can; and the track became a minor river. This is all the more significant because it is the only access to Bulnes. There is no road.



The village is somehow very moving. Bits are deserted, the houses in ruins. But some people have hung on, refusing the government's attempt to install a teleferique, just asking for a better track... Huge slabs of rock stand between the houses, and there is greenery everywhere. Plants thrive in every wall and roof; huge patches of nettles are just allowed to grow. Hens wander everywhere. Nature seems to be enveloping the village.

We had orange juice in the little bar, wanting to leave some money in this brave little place. We saw pictures of the village covered in about three feet of snow. What a wonderful locality. May it survive.









Sunday 19 June

The weather forecast (which is sponsored by Repsol) gave rain. Not a good day for mountains, we thought. We'll go to Leon instead. Leon is reached via the Pajares Pass, another spectacular road, with an even more spectacular railway line keeping up with it. We stopped for lunch by the station at Buen Suceso, and Nigel spotted two trains.





We didn't time our visit well, as a lot of things in Leon were shutting as we arrived. We did see the San Marcos monastery-cum-parador, however, and the inside of the Basilica of San Isidoro, with its Romanesque and Renaissance architecture.

It was outside the basilica that we spotted our first lot of storks, perched in a nest atop a high column. After that, we were finding them everywhere. Any high pinnacle, peak, or pillar in Leon is liable to have been colonized by storks. They are wonderful in flight -- relaxed, languorous, but utterly efficient.



We wandered through the old town, which is very pleasant. By this time the sun was blazing, and we were cursing Repsol. But, to be fair, it might have been very different in the mountains. Waiting for the cathedral to open, we stopped at a pavement cafe opposite for the most delicious, freshly pressed orange juice. The cathedral, supposed to open at 4 pm, finally opened its doors at 5.15. It was worth the wait, though. The stained glass is breath-taking. It's as if the windows are made of jewels. They glow with colour. There was an orchestra practising for some event or other, so our visit was accompanied by their music. The second piece was Bach-like and choral, the first -- I'd love to know what it was -- somehow redolent of Spain, full of colour, passion, strong rhythms, and melancholy.

We left the cathedral, and strolled back to Puglet -- who wasn't there...

What was there were lots of policemen, who told us he'd been towed away for being wrongly parked. Despite looking at the signs very carefully, we had omitted to spot the one, at waist-level, that said parking was banned from 3 pm on this day, the 19th. A helpful taxi driver warned us we'd need 7,000 pesetas to liberate him, and, having obtained these, we set off with the driver to the pound. There were tow-trucks everywhere, hauling away hapless autos by the hundred.

At the internment camp, there were signs that the carnival was starting up, in the shape of those massive Spanish figures that enliven parades. It was this carnival and the associated cycle races that had made it necessary for the streets to be cleared of Puglets... Poor Puglet. It must have been a terrible experience.

A slow journey home. Lots of returning weekend traffic. But a good dinner to make up: asparagus with two sauces, the most delicious grilled salmon, and pears in red wine.

Monday 20 June

Monday, we discovered today, is when most of the shops in Cangas de Onis stay shut. Cangas is a nice little town, and it was nice to wander round it, but it was very frustrating not to be able to buy books.

I've fallen in love with Hydrangea Villa, outside which we've parked each time, and would love to be able to divide some of my time there.



The weather was its usual misty self, but we were determined to do a walk anyway. We made our way up the standard steep mountain track -- and unfortunately stopped to cook up lunch in a large lay-by with a view. I say "unfortunately", because we never really got going again. Nigel was tired, and the cloud was creeping lower. In many ways it was idyllic: birds singing, sheep bells tinkling, views up and down the misty green valley. We sat and read for a while, and the walk was off.

By this time, a gloomy feeling of endings was creeping over me. We went to Ribadesella, and had a pleasant walk along the harbour and back along the cliff, but there were again no opportunities to buy books.

We returned to Cangas to buy food for tea. Not easy, as even more shops had closed by now. We finally tracked down some rather old bread, some more of the Cabrales we've grown so fond of, and some Casadielles [a kind of fried, rolled pancake made with walnuts, and sprinkled with sugar]. So we had a pleasant enough meal.

Back in our little room, I spent ages at the open window, listening to the sound of the river and the faint clank of the sheep bells, and watching the road up the valley. I've enjoyed this all so much: the freedom, the new experiences, the colour and flavour of this rich land. Twelve days is too short. It doesn't give the mind enough time to stretch and relax.

Tuesday 21 June

The last Spanish breakfast. The last little roll, the last magdalena, the last cafe con leche.

The sun was shining when we hit the coast, but it was still misty, so the mountains -- our mountains -- would probably still be wrapped in their veil of secrecy.

We're now installed on the ferry, where we will be for the next 24 hours. We watched it pull away from Santander, and since then have slept a little, had lunch in our cabin (we forgot the knife, so had to spread the salmon pate with the ends of our tooth-brushes...), and indulged in the most delicious chocolate cake at the salon de the. There is a long swell that throws the boat about a bit. Never a reliable sailor, I've needed to resort to seasickness tablets.

None of that stopped us enjoying a really good dinner: a buffet of hors d'oeuvres; salmon with sorrel; and excellent cheese. A string quartet played in the bar.

Wednesday 22 June

We got up quite early, and breakfasted on croissants and hot chocolate, which I feel is a suitably continental end to the holiday.

Land has just appeared, and we've another hour or so to go. The swell heightened over the course of the voyage to quite a lot of movement. But I'm quite pleased with my marine performance. One tablet to get me confident, and that seemed to do. Maybe it was because it was a longer crossing. It gives you time to get used to the movement.

The boat is bucking a bit less now, but the sea and sky look very cold and grey and English.

The drive home will be tedious.