Alex arrives sporting slightly tighter trousers (if that is indeed possible) and spirits Lucy away to the bus. Lucy who has got up especially early so that she can pay her bill, there is some frantic calculator work - result - nada.
- A Diversion: There are two waitresses at the Arredondo, Mariella - young, voluptuous and incapable of understanding Tony's Spanish resulting in some interesting conversations:
T "Secadora?" [A tumble drier]
M "Secadora?" Blank incomprehension.
T "Secadora!"
M "Secadora?"
T Resorting to mime washes his ropas. Then instead of hanging them out to dry and discovering that the washing line was sadly absent, opens the bookcase door and throws the wet garments in.
M "Oh! Secadora!"
T "SI! SECADORA!"
Much hilarity all round.
The other girl we have already met over the breakfast table, she is thin and stands erect with her hands clasped behind her back, she stares straight ahead and recites the breakfast litany that you are by now familiar with. The first day and my almost non-existent Spanish whirrs, groans and clicks into an internal, and interminable translation (surely the J in orange doesn't sound like that) before producing the querulous, "Si?". Prevaricate too long and she will pounce with a translation which leaves you obliged to say yes even if you know that what's on offer will make you seriously ill. -
Alex re-arrives and takes us back to the base of Cares Gorge, where he turns left, and whisks... well, no - drives, bounces, careers, glides and powerdrives us to the nearly the top of the pass, about five minutes walking from the col. I become decidedly glum as the ascent continues, as I know that we have to go all the way down to the bottom again. Tony just goes green as the view from the front - his option, gets progressively more vertiginous, and the ground progressively more distant. We stop just in time and, while some of us scan the mountain, Tony scans the ground, practices stertorian breathing, and pops a cough sweet in his mouth for the blessed relief of menthol, and to give his rapidly accumulating saliva something to do.
When his heart rate (and stomach) drops to something approaching normal, we start off and accelerate it again. From the col we descend a cow track which eventually becomes a donkey track - today's definition of a donkey track - an agglomeration of smoothly polished limestone cobbles, patinated with the sort of mud that you lubricate oil rigs with, descending at an angle that the average staircase wouldn't be ashamed off, though the pitch is occasionally alleviated by a quagmire.
Judith slips, and rolls, losing some dignity and a smidge of confidence, the rest of her confidence evaporates as her buttocks impact the slope a few minutes later, it is to be her dia horribilis. The path continues in a similar vein - forever. Alex leads by example i.e. he is occasionally seen lurking at critical forks in the path, a form of guiding as a signpost. As we continue, Judith begins to rebel, sadly the path doesn't, it remains, without conscience, the same, until it reaches Bulnes village, just round the back of the muckheap, all bloody-minded 562 metres descent of it. However, waiting there, between the two tractors that have been helicoptered up is lunch and, as we unpack the picnic and wait for the others, Alex tells me about the funicular (something I correctly predict, that Judith and Tony may explore more intimately). The funicular was put in to provide the villagers of Bulnes with a means of access other than the donkey track that I will be continuing on, that's the official story, it was actually put in to rival the cable car at Fuente De, which is in another district. As soon as the funicular is finished (after two false starts both ending in water pockets, one of which destroys the mining machinery on loan from Switzerland) the locals all sell their houses as second homes and decamp for the high life elsewhere.
By this time the others arrive, and lunch is conducted with a degree of dudgeon that ameliorates as satiation takes hold. We sit by the stream and watch an old man whittle a chairpost, and watch the tourists come up from the funicular, cast about the dozen houses and two bars and turn ruefully back to the funicular. No-one even checks out the graveyard where the remains of the first man killed climbing Naranjo de Bulnes lie. Naranjo de Bulnes (2519m) is a pinnacle first climbed by the local Marquis and a shepherd, (mainly because there was a German casting glances in its direction) the Marquis had the boots.
Tony and Judy descend via the funicular while Alex and I (I use the term "and" advisedly) descend via the continuation of the track, which had become much more forgiving as it dried out, apart from the odd horrendous drop-off. However I could tell I was a disappointment, it takes me 55 minutes to Alex's predicted 30, but we still both manage to admire, from a distance, the girl (with enormous boyfriend) that we passed. My journey down is "interesting", the washes of sweat across my glasses cause some tricky moments of foot placing. Knees the size of footballs, I arrive at the cafe causing a slight air of disbelief - timing or my condition, I know not. Alex got a taxi, got the bus, got us. On the way home we passed a rather sorry tanker, bearing the legend "De La Vega Gazoles" a sad ending to the Zorro story, I felt.
In the evening we go to Lanes and to La Cueva (the cave) this is a fish restaurant that features very bright lights, large white plates, and a selection of cave paintings done on tiles on the wall. One of them features what appears to be a papoose next to a large knife, we study the menu with suspicion. I order what I am told is wrasse - it isn't, not with those teeth. Whatever it was
it was delicious. One the way back we surprise a wild boar crossing the road.
Heavy rain 2-25am.
Breakfast ("Si", "Si", "Si", "No", "NO?", "Si, no").
The morning, it rains, the cloud skims the top of the trees, we get in the van and stop in Posada where we search for some glue to mend Tony's boots, as his sole has decided to part company from his upper, and to buy some food. As we wait for Alex, Tony plumps for a cafe cortado to stir some neurones, some of us think this may be a misguided course of action. We drive up to the Ercina lakes, which at one point was all that the National Park consisted of. After Covadonga (Cuadonga in Asturian) the visibility closes down to thirty metres, just enough for Tony (front seated again) to see over the edge of the wall at the hairpins, caffeine strikes and his imagination soars (downwards, with some rolls, finally bursting into flames on impact), he slides from the outer seat to the middle.
At the lakes a bitter wind pushes the cloud through our clothes, and we gather at the back of the van to discuss our options. Alex produces the map. "We can do the four hour trip to this Refugio, or the two and one half hour trip to this Refugio but we'll have to do it using my GPS. Or we can do this trip for two and one half hours between the lakes, or we can do the five minute stroll to the waterside which I think is over there." We opt for the latter and I managed to beat him at skimming stones (this would later lead to an argument over chocolate bars, while he insisted his was bigger than mine I pointed out that at least mine had been used, at least I think it was about chocolate. After examining some wild boar damage we returned to the bus, via a close encounter with a newt (a Triton in Spanish) and headed back through the clouds for a religious experience in Cuadonga/Covadonga. It was at this point that Alex informed us that his Father had been at one point the Lutherian Primate for Spain - presumably a pretty thankless task. Cuadonga is a Marian shrine it was here that Mary appeared to the local warlord and told him to, "Chuck the Moors off my land" or words to that effect, which he subsequently did (just ) incidentally saving himself a fortune in tribute and establishing a kingship, what an astute politician that Mary is.
We then drove to the Coast at Ribasella where us three Brits had a nostalgic time indulging in a very British picnic i.e. in the car, looking at the sea during the moments when it wasn't obscured by rain pouring down the windows.
After lunch we drove to the Tito Caves - closed due to technical problems. I think it was at this point that we became less of a thorn in Alex's flesh. We didn't moan and groan, we had been in fits of hysterics at the non-existent lakes, we realised that the weather wasn't Alex's fault, perhaps to his surprise.
Casting my mind back to last night's dinner I suggest we head off and look at the rock (Pena Tu) with the papoose and knife on it.
"It's just a rock - you know?"
"I like rocks."
"Oh OK"
We meander up through the forest, passing a fearsome array of limb and testicle destroying mountain bike courses, and arrive at the rock, It's a large lump of quartzite featuring the papoose and knife, it also features a set of running men, many of which have been vandalised by passing pilgrims into crosses. As we return to the van we discover that the interpretive museum has opened, and, more importantly that today it is free! We move inside and discover that the rock is a Bronze Age boundary marker featuring scary fetish object (papoose) and very large knife, the message is clear, "We have one of these, and we have several of these, so come past this stone, and we're prepared to use the latter and sacrifice portions of your anatomy to the former!".
The evening meal is back at the hotel, the menu hasn't changed but this is more than made up for by Mariella. At one point she asks if we are moving and where to. Judith and I draw in a breath, settle back comfortably in our chairs, cross our hands in our laps and wait for Tony to mime Potes.....
Heavy rain at midnight and four a.m.
- A Diversion: There are two waitresses at the Arredondo, Mariella - young, voluptuous and incapable of understanding Tony's Spanish resulting in some interesting conversations:
T "Secadora?" [A tumble drier]
M "Secadora?" Blank incomprehension.
T "Secadora!"
M "Secadora?"
T Resorting to mime washes his ropas. Then instead of hanging them out to dry and discovering that the washing line was sadly absent, opens the bookcase door and throws the wet garments in.
M "Oh! Secadora!"
T "SI! SECADORA!"
Much hilarity all round.
The other girl we have already met over the breakfast table, she is thin and stands erect with her hands clasped behind her back, she stares straight ahead and recites the breakfast litany that you are by now familiar with. The first day and my almost non-existent Spanish whirrs, groans and clicks into an internal, and interminable translation (surely the J in orange doesn't sound like that) before producing the querulous, "Si?". Prevaricate too long and she will pounce with a translation which leaves you obliged to say yes even if you know that what's on offer will make you seriously ill. -
Alex re-arrives and takes us back to the base of Cares Gorge, where he turns left, and whisks... well, no - drives, bounces, careers, glides and powerdrives us to the nearly the top of the pass, about five minutes walking from the col. I become decidedly glum as the ascent continues, as I know that we have to go all the way down to the bottom again. Tony just goes green as the view from the front - his option, gets progressively more vertiginous, and the ground progressively more distant. We stop just in time and, while some of us scan the mountain, Tony scans the ground, practices stertorian breathing, and pops a cough sweet in his mouth for the blessed relief of menthol, and to give his rapidly accumulating saliva something to do.
When his heart rate (and stomach) drops to something approaching normal, we start off and accelerate it again. From the col we descend a cow track which eventually becomes a donkey track - today's definition of a donkey track - an agglomeration of smoothly polished limestone cobbles, patinated with the sort of mud that you lubricate oil rigs with, descending at an angle that the average staircase wouldn't be ashamed off, though the pitch is occasionally alleviated by a quagmire.
Judith slips, and rolls, losing some dignity and a smidge of confidence, the rest of her confidence evaporates as her buttocks impact the slope a few minutes later, it is to be her dia horribilis. The path continues in a similar vein - forever. Alex leads by example i.e. he is occasionally seen lurking at critical forks in the path, a form of guiding as a signpost. As we continue, Judith begins to rebel, sadly the path doesn't, it remains, without conscience, the same, until it reaches Bulnes village, just round the back of the muckheap, all bloody-minded 562 metres descent of it. However, waiting there, between the two tractors that have been helicoptered up is lunch and, as we unpack the picnic and wait for the others, Alex tells me about the funicular (something I correctly predict, that Judith and Tony may explore more intimately). The funicular was put in to provide the villagers of Bulnes with a means of access other than the donkey track that I will be continuing on, that's the official story, it was actually put in to rival the cable car at Fuente De, which is in another district. As soon as the funicular is finished (after two false starts both ending in water pockets, one of which destroys the mining machinery on loan from Switzerland) the locals all sell their houses as second homes and decamp for the high life elsewhere.
By this time the others arrive, and lunch is conducted with a degree of dudgeon that ameliorates as satiation takes hold. We sit by the stream and watch an old man whittle a chairpost, and watch the tourists come up from the funicular, cast about the dozen houses and two bars and turn ruefully back to the funicular. No-one even checks out the graveyard where the remains of the first man killed climbing Naranjo de Bulnes lie. Naranjo de Bulnes (2519m) is a pinnacle first climbed by the local Marquis and a shepherd, (mainly because there was a German casting glances in its direction) the Marquis had the boots.
Tony and Judy descend via the funicular while Alex and I (I use the term "and" advisedly) descend via the continuation of the track, which had become much more forgiving as it dried out, apart from the odd horrendous drop-off. However I could tell I was a disappointment, it takes me 55 minutes to Alex's predicted 30, but we still both manage to admire, from a distance, the girl (with enormous boyfriend) that we passed. My journey down is "interesting", the washes of sweat across my glasses cause some tricky moments of foot placing. Knees the size of footballs, I arrive at the cafe causing a slight air of disbelief - timing or my condition, I know not. Alex got a taxi, got the bus, got us. On the way home we passed a rather sorry tanker, bearing the legend "De La Vega Gazoles" a sad ending to the Zorro story, I felt.
In the evening we go to Lanes and to La Cueva (the cave) this is a fish restaurant that features very bright lights, large white plates, and a selection of cave paintings done on tiles on the wall. One of them features what appears to be a papoose next to a large knife, we study the menu with suspicion. I order what I am told is wrasse - it isn't, not with those teeth. Whatever it was
it was delicious. One the way back we surprise a wild boar crossing the road.
Heavy rain 2-25am.
Breakfast ("Si", "Si", "Si", "No", "NO?", "Si, no").
The morning, it rains, the cloud skims the top of the trees, we get in the van and stop in Posada where we search for some glue to mend Tony's boots, as his sole has decided to part company from his upper, and to buy some food. As we wait for Alex, Tony plumps for a cafe cortado to stir some neurones, some of us think this may be a misguided course of action. We drive up to the Ercina lakes, which at one point was all that the National Park consisted of. After Covadonga (Cuadonga in Asturian) the visibility closes down to thirty metres, just enough for Tony (front seated again) to see over the edge of the wall at the hairpins, caffeine strikes and his imagination soars (downwards, with some rolls, finally bursting into flames on impact), he slides from the outer seat to the middle.
At the lakes a bitter wind pushes the cloud through our clothes, and we gather at the back of the van to discuss our options. Alex produces the map. "We can do the four hour trip to this Refugio, or the two and one half hour trip to this Refugio but we'll have to do it using my GPS. Or we can do this trip for two and one half hours between the lakes, or we can do the five minute stroll to the waterside which I think is over there." We opt for the latter and I managed to beat him at skimming stones (this would later lead to an argument over chocolate bars, while he insisted his was bigger than mine I pointed out that at least mine had been used, at least I think it was about chocolate. After examining some wild boar damage we returned to the bus, via a close encounter with a newt (a Triton in Spanish) and headed back through the clouds for a religious experience in Cuadonga/Covadonga. It was at this point that Alex informed us that his Father had been at one point the Lutherian Primate for Spain - presumably a pretty thankless task. Cuadonga is a Marian shrine it was here that Mary appeared to the local warlord and told him to, "Chuck the Moors off my land" or words to that effect, which he subsequently did (just ) incidentally saving himself a fortune in tribute and establishing a kingship, what an astute politician that Mary is.
We then drove to the Coast at Ribasella where us three Brits had a nostalgic time indulging in a very British picnic i.e. in the car, looking at the sea during the moments when it wasn't obscured by rain pouring down the windows.
After lunch we drove to the Tito Caves - closed due to technical problems. I think it was at this point that we became less of a thorn in Alex's flesh. We didn't moan and groan, we had been in fits of hysterics at the non-existent lakes, we realised that the weather wasn't Alex's fault, perhaps to his surprise.
Casting my mind back to last night's dinner I suggest we head off and look at the rock (Pena Tu) with the papoose and knife on it.
"It's just a rock - you know?"
"I like rocks."
"Oh OK"
We meander up through the forest, passing a fearsome array of limb and testicle destroying mountain bike courses, and arrive at the rock, It's a large lump of quartzite featuring the papoose and knife, it also features a set of running men, many of which have been vandalised by passing pilgrims into crosses. As we return to the van we discover that the interpretive museum has opened, and, more importantly that today it is free! We move inside and discover that the rock is a Bronze Age boundary marker featuring scary fetish object (papoose) and very large knife, the message is clear, "We have one of these, and we have several of these, so come past this stone, and we're prepared to use the latter and sacrifice portions of your anatomy to the former!".
The evening meal is back at the hotel, the menu hasn't changed but this is more than made up for by Mariella. At one point she asks if we are moving and where to. Judith and I draw in a breath, settle back comfortably in our chairs, cross our hands in our laps and wait for Tony to mime Potes.....
Heavy rain at midnight and four a.m.
