Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Picos the Third


The day begins slightly thick-headed thanks to the Pacharan (sloe gin) and oruja (no idea) but has an adventure at breakfast with scrambled egg, well, two adventures as the first scrambled egg is held together by the cook's hair. We pack and settle the bar tab, before whizzing up the Hermana Gorge to Potes, we stop halfway up to check out the canyoning gorge where the water level is declared, "OK". Fortunately the adventure sports centre in Potes is shut.


We move on to the next hotel - a Posada about five kilometres outside Potes, leave our bags and head back to Potes for a lunch of tapas (sort of). Then back to the Posada - locked, tragedy. Highly disgruntled we stretch out in the warm sunshine and admire the view of the mountains as it sinks behind our closing eyelids. Sadly mein hosts return and let us in:

Alex, "OK ten minutes and then we go."

After fifteen minutes I go and check Tony and Judith's room, they fail to answer the door, surely they can't have fallen asleep after one beer. I consult with Alex, until strolling around the house we discover them waiting on the opposite side - what idiots!


We drive to Brez, where we do a gentle circular walk through oak and birch woodland and up to mountain heath, on the track in front of us there is a wildcat pugmark, there are wonderful views up into the mountains, there are rainbows, everyone declares it "Fab!":

The praying mantis in the car park, "Fab!"

The vultures flying close overhead, "Fab!"

The views "Fab!" - both directions.

Nick going, "Oh look field mushrooms. How tasty." Judith and Tony, "Fab!" Alex, "Aaaargh! Noo! What are you doing?"

Lovers of mushrooms should note that this region of Spain is a good place to come, as the locals treat all mushrooms with suspicion. They might also like to know that the football field opposite the campsite contains several kilo's of horse mushrooms.

We return to the inn and I indulge, the bathroom has a bath: Standard European - Short, the sort of bath where you wallow in two halves (see pics - if you dare). Afterwards, and before dinner, I sit on my balcony write my journal and my postcards, and listen to the sound of distant thunder rolling round the mountains, and the close thunder of the couple in the room next door's mother on speaker phone, it will soon be time to test the beer.

Sadly the beer test fails, as all we can find is the dog, Pongo (a Golden Retriever who's quite shy but if someone called you Pongo, wouldn't you be), as I indulge in a bit of ear-pulling I discover a large tick right on top of his head, as we start to leave, and our hosts arrive, I summon all my (and a lot of Tony's Spanish), "Moment!" "Por favor." "Umm, Pongo......" Grab dog, expose top of head.
"Ohh, uno (something muttered)."
"Si." winging it.
"Gracias."
"Por nada."

Then into town to a restaurant, Casa Caya (at this point my notes become a little blurred), to eat several more pounds of red meat, two bottles of Rioja and a Tostadilla, which is a wine base plus some coffee - all together this tastes like a very old sherry, that's not the third of a bottle left over from Christmas two years ago but a 25 year old sherry (it's a good thing - honest). This is followed by a lengthy discussion on teasing (and coffee), a longer one on the Spanish for teasing, the latter fails to come to a conclusion. The evening sky is clear, the star's spectacular though slightly marred by the loom of Potes' street lamps.

Oh yes, I had lamb chops, black pudding, salad, scrambled egg, plus a souffle in custard, the Iberian equivalent of Isle Flottant. I think the scrambled eggs knocked my total for the day up to about eight (eggs) - but I digest.

After breakfast consisting of a sort of homemade churro, coffee, toast and fruit we make a brief run for Potes to buy our picnic, and then high-tailed it to Fuente De, where Alex discovers that he has forgotten the bread. After a brief excursion to the cafe he emerges triumphant, clasping a loaf, after turning his not inconsiderable charm on the poor impressionable young thing behind the till. We then clamber into the cable car and ascend at high speed, it appears that Tony has very inert blood, as the cable car rises, it stays exactly where it was and pools somewhere in his boots but he survives. At the top there is a platform that juts out over the edge of the cliff, we pause for photo's and some tomfoolery before setting out for our lunchspot of Cabina Veronica. First, a road - unmetalled, probably for the mercury mine that used to be up here, then a typical mountain path (something that goes fundamentally up, and is covered in loose stones) finally a teeter-totter over the knife edges of the karst, before arriving at the Cabina. The Cabina is just that, it is a deck cabin from a warship that has been helicoptered up here and concreted to the limestone, for good measure there are some cables cast over the top to hold it in place. it is sometimes a refuge (for seven) and sometimes a hermit's cell as it has an owner, sadly marooned in hospital with lung cancer, at this present moment. The interior contains his memorabilia, pictures of himself surrounded by bottles at some party in the Cabina, it is at once festive and sad. To avoid the melancholy we sit outside at the picnic table, gorging ourselves on smoked pork loin and cheese, occasionally lobbing scraps to the passing choughs, who, being ever-present and constantly ever-fed have become gourmets, and eschew mere bread and cheese, opting instead for tomatoes and olives.

Interestingly the area around the cabina has whiffs of the lavatorial and there are nettles growing there - how interesting.

We make our way back to the turn off point for the descent, I employ my doe eyes, and so it is that Alex and I scoot up to the col to have a look over the other side, take photos of us with my pipe, stare with some terror down the very large hole at the top and watch the bloke trying to kill himself by traversing the scree via the wrong route, whilst Judith and Tony set off on the descent. The view from the col is down into the central valley of the central massif, in the distance the needle of Naranja de Bulnes pokes through the clouds, paths stretch away circumnavigating the basin, they look promising, sadly we turn away and begin the descent.
On the way we pass two English lads that we'd overtaken on the way up, one of the pair has obviously spent his formative (I do not use the term loosely) drinking a lot of beer. We had passed them on the way up while they were sweating profusely and rolling a fag, on the way down they are sweating profusely and eating. It is at this point that Alex and I indulge in conversation,
"Tell me Alex, what most exercises you about guiding, is it the potential death of a client, the financial worry of a poor season or what?"
"Well Nick, I will tell you, it is what you do about, how do you say it - farting."
"!"
This is the most talked about subject at Mountain Guide School, a guide has to lead, and therefore, in narrow places with little air movement what are you to do? Standing to oneside to survey the cloud formations may cause stress within the group, as they are there to follow you. Strategy is called for, a particularly noxious blast can be countered with a mountaineering remark such as, "Aha the west wind blowing from Galicia, what garlic!". Noise engenders remarks about distant thunder, or the calls of rare mountain creatures who have just ..."No, over there, look, by the.. oh no it's gone!". A goat close to the path can be an absolute Godsend. As a Brit I thought that a rather cryptic, "Crikey you don't often get to hear that, you're very lucky." might suffice. I asked Alex what the female guides did during these crises, "Well for them it is easy, they are the worst, they do what they want and no-one believes that it is them."

I recount this conversation with Tony and Judith at our evening restaurant, at which point Judith rather archly points out that this is why she always walks at the back, there is a pause as we contemplate the large dish of chickpea stew that has arrived at the table. A quick word about Tony and Judy. Tony a retiree solicitor is heavily into golf and has a penchant for fast cars (and mime). Judith has a slightly more chequered (in the nicest possible way) past, ex Ballet Rambert, from there to Ballet Hungarian, who fell on hard times and went touring with a circus where Judith became an elephant rider - cor. They are a delightful couple revelling in their middle-age despite being 73 and 68, hope for us all, respect.

I indulge in venison and foie gras, and a glass of Orucha y Ierbas that smells like the contents of a slurry pit i.e. noxious with overtones of vegetation but tastes a lot better - fortunately.
We return, tip Alex and go to bed.
Heavy wind all night.

The next day we were picked up by taxi, and went home.