Days 3 & 4
By the following afternoon, we arrived in Santander. It was after three when we finally drove off the ferry and into Spain, heading towards the Picos de Europa. The mountains began to appear on the horizon as we travelled inland, and slowly the journey began to feel very real.
Eventually we arrived at a small, pretty hotel in Lerones, tucked into the mountains. After checking in and unloading our bags, we walked a mile or so to a nearby restaurant for dinner. On the way, we became part of a cattle drive. A farmer was bringing his herd down the road and, somehow, we ended up at the back of the procession. For a brief stretch, our evening walk became an exercise in accidental cattle herding. Not quite the introduction to rural Spain I’d expected – but a memorable one nonetheless.
The next morning began with fresh, sugar-dusted churros, then we headed to Potes; a beautiful village surrounded by the mountains of Cantabria.
There we bought ourselves wooden walking sticks, which we henceforth jokingly referred to as our beating sticks. We’d already learnt that the huge cattle dogs in the mountains have the stealth of ninjas. As they’re the guardians of livestock, and should not be confused with pets, we needed to proceed with caution. And so, the sticks seemed like a sensible investment.
From Potes we continued to a monastery, where my husband and Peter queued to see a fragment said to be part of the True Cross.
I went outside instead. The mountains were calling to me.
From there we continued to Mogrovejo, a mountain village that has apparently been described as one of Spain’s prettiest. We made friends with a couple of village dogs. They had wise faces that made me wonder whether they’d been keeping an eye on the village for longer than anyone might expect.
I decided they might be familiars.
Above us, griffon vultures circled on the thermals. And higher still, we spotted a bearded vulture, aptly nicknamed the bone breaker, gliding above them. There was something strangely appropriate about watching vultures circling these ancient mountains.
Then we left the village behind and took to the mountain tracks.
This was what we’d come for.
The road narrowed into rough tracks, winding around the mountains with hairpin bends and spectacular views. We navigated around cows, horses and donkeys that were wandering freely, all seemingly quite unconcerned about the vehicles picking their way through their territory.
Although one cow took too much of an interest in us when we got out of the car. After issuing a theatrical moo, she charged at us. Fortunately, we were close enough to the car to make a rapid retreat to safety – and no beating sticks were needed.
Further along the track, we encountered a donkey who was considerably more welcoming. She popped her head in the car for an ear tickle and chin scratch. And Peter had a banana in his car which she accepted with much enthusiasm.
By the end of the day, the mountains had given us everything we’d come looking for: sunshine, wilderness, animals, narrow tracks and the strange feeling of being somewhere that belonged entirely to itself. We left the mountains behind and headed towards the coast to our campsite for the night on the beach at Perlora, exchanging mountains for sea.
The road was beginning to take us somewhere else entirely. And I had no idea where it would lead next.
