Vultures and culture.

We left you last week in tiny St Vincent having toured the area around the wine capital of Haro. It had been festivals all the way.

Time for a change of scenery.

Being Sunday it was only right that we visited a few churches – talking about every one would be boring, although visiting them never is. Here’s a big one: Santa Domingo de Silos. The heart of a Benedictine monastery, this is not all dripping gold, in fact it’s stark by any terms. Golden sandstone outside, cool grey granite inside.

The drive there changed dramatically as a turn took us from the endless plains to plunge through a limestone gorge with the particular delight of seeing a kettle of vultures gathering around a carcass.

Vultures? How apt. The area is also popular for being the location of Sad Hill Cemetery, created for the film The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. That was back in 1966 but it’s still being milked.

Castillia Y León

Tripping over the border from Rioja to the Castillia Y León region the crops changed like flicking a switch. In Rioja the grape rules supreme. As soon as you’re out of Rioja, cereals and sunflowers take over. 

“Hey Franço El Castilliano, this is great country for growing grapes!” 

“Pah!” spits Franço. “Grapes! What idiot grows grapes? Look at them over there in their huge bodegas and their massive Mercedes. Look at all the foreign tourists spending thousands on silly wine. I grow sunflowers, I have no money, but my 1968 Seat is still going.”

On the skyline you may see a castle, but you’re more likely to see a huge grain store.

The road to León. 

We’re not big city fans when travelling in the van, but we’ve learned the secret to easy city travel in Spain. Travel in the heat of the day when the sensible Spanish are sleeping. Better still, travel on a Sunday. There are no lorries, and hardly anyone travels further than their gran’s house in the next village. They’re all drunk when they drive home later so be super careful late in the afternoon (just like St Just).

100 miles of generally flat plain slid by with ease, and by late afternoon ArchieVan was parked up in the last space of the excellent municipal van area only 15 minutes walk from one of the world’s great cathedrals.

Municipal? In England you immediately imagine something grotty and run down, built in the post war frenzy and now pretty much abandoned. Not here. Here municipal parking, the campsites, the swimming pools – they’re all excellent.

León is not a pretty town, but it’s clean and feels safe. Early in the morning guys are out hosing down the streets, even the bins get a wash, and the trees are watered.

In the cathedral they put on an organ recital for us (OK, it was seven o’clock mass, but you can always dream). Churches with music, especially from the organ, are so much more dramatic. Throw in some singing and this religion thing could catch on!

Bar La Ribera

Outside the Spanish were celebrating their other religion of bacchanalia. The bars start to fill after eight and our chosen one had a single table left as we squeezed in. Bar La Ribera is the sort of place that’s getting rare, that takes a little more nerve to try, but that rewards your effort.

The husband and wife team work non-stop servicing the 40+ covers serving a simple menu of Spanish staples. Portions are generous, prices are generous, the noise level is high, and the joy is everywhere. We though we’d ordered patas bravas to eat with our meatballs, but we were served a mountain of freshly fried crisps which did the job just as well. The menu includes sweetbreads, kidneys and more relics of your grandmother’s kitchen. Once you’re in you don’t want to leave, but we did have to wonder how modestly built Spaniards managed to put away such huge amounts of food. Perhaps they fast before a visit, or more likely after.

The plains of Spain often stretch as far as the eye can see. Dry cereal growing lands, or the scrub of near deserts. That said there are usually mountains in the distance, and leaving Léon we were soon passing through the dramatic Las Ubinãs La Mesa range. 

Entering the gloom of a particularly long and steep motorway tunnel we left bright 22 degree sunshine behind us, to emerge several kms later in 15 degree cloud with spitting rain. 

The next surprise was Gijon. There has been nothing you’d call ugly on all the drive so far, but Gijon puts up a strong challenge. The port is Spain’s most important for landing of coal and ore, as well as exporting domestic product. That curious stench of coal and oil hangs over the area, and swathes of land are given over to coal stockpiles, served by massive conveyors hidden in red corrugated tunnels. Not far from all this the party continues as the town diversifies into a holiday destination.

Rest

Traveling is hard. It’s different to a holiday. I advise anyone who asks to cut their distances and take plenty of rest days. 

Occasionally I remember my own sage words.

We planned a two night stay at Camping Perlora. ArchieVan may want us to stay longer. The engine management light came on yesterday, and at the end of the drive the dashboard pinged up a brake wear warning too. Sometimes on the motorway a few hundred miles can be knocked off with barely a touch of the brakes, but our next destination is deep within the Picos Europa mountain range where brakes may come in handy!

I’m writing now from the little office of Talleres Auto Agricola where Hugo showed me that van’s brake master cylinder is caput. The conversation was hard even with Google, but we shared a will to get it sorted. 

Nothing happens during the Spanish afternoon so we’ll just sit it out until action returns, hopefully leaving with a happy van. Last time something similar happened I was in a much more hostile Slovakian garage so all things considered this is OK. I’m not sure what the alternative is now that the van is in bits!

Have faith! The guys did a great job. Four hours later we left a few hundred pounds lighter, but with new brakes and much improved stopping ability.

We needed a reward. We needed to discover orujo. But that’s for later.

Into the hills

Part of the inspiration for this trip was to make it into the Picos Europa. Apparently travellers sailing back from the Americas named the mountain range that was their first sight of Europe. 

Whatever the history, Rick, Amanda’s stepfather, had long planned to bring his TR6 to the Picos. To hear the exhaust roaring through the narrow gorges. To grip the wheel through the bends. To savour the fear every classic car driver has when on a long run. Rick might not make the trip, and ArchieVan is nothing like the TR, but it all adds purpose.

We started in the west, following a straightforward route, supported by the magic of Google. Yet, as the road narrowed, the drops became more terrifying, and the bends that couldn’t be taken in one sweep came more often, we realised that we were not on course.

How do you describe a mountain pass to someone who has never driven one? It’s a balance, a delicate balance, between awe at the beauty of your surroundings, and the utter terror of being responsible for your loved one’s life, your home’s safety, and the narrow strip of tarmac that stands between you and an unimaginable, unprotected drop.

At one point I looked from the distant view to the immediate fall beside me – and straight away I promised not to do that again. 500m in a straight line is a fair distance. 500m as a drop right alongside you isn’t worth thinking about.

The sign says “Don’t be stupid, go home!”

We executed a many point turn. Very much a two person job. We crept back along roads recently driven.

Our destination was only 37 miles away, but even the ever-optimistic Google was suggesting it would take just shy of two hours. With regular stops to allow the brakes to cool it took us closer to three.

Riaño

Modern Riaño (the original village now lies under the reservoir’s waters) isn’t inspiring, but after today’s drive any port would do. I was seeking something strong as we headed into town, and boy did we find it.

Orujo

On Crete our downfall was tsiporo, an evil pomace of grape skins and stems, distilled to the high 50 per cents. Tsiporo guaranteed illusions. And an evil hangover.

Now why should the Spanish get by without their own version? 

Queue orujo. Cut with gentian, honey, cream, or other fruits. Or for the hardcore – straight. Fuck me! This stuff is strong, and perfectly hit the need created by a day of wet mountain tension. In Gibo, the only bar that was open in the town, the measures got bigger every time we ordered, and the tapas more generous. Several mad drinks later the bill was less than we’d expect for two beers at home. And starters came for free.

Potas

It’s a cold night, and we’re up before light hoping to make the cable car at Fuente Dé before the queues get too long, unfortunately the weather is poor and getting worse. The mountain road to Potes is stunning, but it’s lashing down when we arrive. We change tack and fill with diesel (ridiculously cheap, about £1.15 a litre) and try to find somewhere to hole up. 

The first motorhome area needs a call for access, but they’re full. The second motorhome area also needs a call, they say they’re full, but Minty insists there are loads of spaces (there are) and, realising who she is up against, the lady relents and does whatever magic was required to remotely open the gate.

We have left it silly late in the afternoon before thinking of breakfast. It’s the weekend, and guess what? Yes, they’re having a festival, and the town is rammed. No room here. No room there. But eventually we secure some tapas and avert a hunger induced crisis. Fed, we see the town with new eyes. The sun comes out and we realise what a pretty place it is.

Our instinct may be to avoid the obvious tourist traps, but fact is they’re the places with the money where the interesting stuff can survive. Great restaurants, great producers, and artisans all flock to the place. And that makes it good for us too.

El Bodegón

El Bodegón. There was no room at lunchtime, but persistence secured a table for evening drinks and fine jamon served by the wonderfully amiable Budgie Bob. Budgie, also known as Whistling Bob delivered clear piercing whistles in acknowledgement of requests, and when nodding instructions. He runs a fantastic bar that got all the better when a couple of fine built fellows starting singing at each other. The acoustic enabled them to deliver incredible volume that silenced the noisy bar.

At the other end of town two huge stages had been set up. At 10.00pm (yes, long past bedtime) the first concert started. Led by some woodwind maestro it was called the Seven Celtic Nations and featured impressive pipe and woodwind playing including every shape of recorder I’ve ever seen. At midnight, when we were in bed, the second stage came to life for the Titanium Euro Rave that belted out dance anthems until 04.30am. We sort of slept through it, but you have to be pretty tired when the DJ is hammering 160BPM.

Fuente Dé

Fellow St Juster and van traveller Keith G recommended Fuente Dé. Wow! What a great suggestion. Easily accessed up another stunning mountain road Fuente Dé centres around a cable car that climbs 750m in four and a half heart stopping minutes. 

Stepping out at around 1850m you’re at the height where scrubby plants give up and there’s just rock from there on up. We may have queued for 90 minutes to get here, but it was worth every moment. Up high we met yellow beaked choughs for the first time, and saw a few eagles below us, but it was too early in the morning for them to be out in numbers.

Hardcore mountain types took to hiking the 14km skyline route to a refuge a few hundred meters further up, but we were beyond happy to cover a few kms wandering in wonder.

Piñeres

30 miles up the road the nature watch took a turn for the better. A fellow has created a small carpark in the hills where he has his café and toilets. For just 8 euros you can stay the night. Parked facing north towards the village you’re already overcome with joy. But that’s before you take the couple of km walk up to the Mirador de Santa Catalina. 

The Santa Catalina viewpoint is on a ridge looking west over a 500m drop towards the high mountains in the distance. By the time we get there it’s late afternoon and perfect soaring conditions. At any one time we could count 30+ Griffon Vultures riding the thermals, covering huge distances with barely a flick of their wings. These creatures are known to fly as much as 1200 kms in a week, a figure that’s hard to believe until you see them perform. They were above us and below, occasionally on a level, and despite their speed their grace was awe inspiring.

Back at the van we can hear Golden Eagles (a call rather like that of the buzzards at home), and perhaps some of our vultures were actually eagles. Although they seemed close when soaring they were still a heck of a distance and only show as specks in photos.

In the morning we’re treated to a brief fly-past of a Golden Eagle – hopefully we’ll see more.

Temperatures

The van’s leisure batteries are failing. We had them fitted in Thesoloniki in 2018 so they have served us well. The job to replace them is expensive but straightforward, however with a little planning we can get by without. At night we shut off the fridge, which stays cool until morning, and don’t charge anything. The only real disadvantage is that we can’t use the heating as the power draw from the fan is too high for the worn out batteries. With the temperatures hitting the mid 30s on some days that doesn’t sound like an issue, but nighttime temperatures have dropped to 3 degrees and a little more warmth might have been welcome. We have slept through colder, and I’m sure we will again.

Musgoso and me

Musgoso wanders the woods at night playing sad harmonious melodies on his flute of unknown wood. He invited me to join him and passed me a stick.

“But it’s only a stick.” I protested.

“Don’t worry, just play.”

And we played through the night. Tunes I have never known, and that are now but memories. Memories of the time I played flute with Musgoso.

Next up we’ll try the coast again, but for today we’ll wait for the eagles’ return.