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Thomas Moore gave us a man for all seasons. Asturias gives us a day for all seasons.
“Let’s have a day out,” I told Paul after a heavy conversation. We’d been lamenting the fact that our travelling days had temporarily been put on hold. Finances dictate we’re unable, momentarily, to book that two week holiday in Sri Lanka we’d been dreaming of. Hey ho, we can’t even afford a weekend away in Galicia, a hundred miles away.
Paul looked somewhat sober.
“A day out doesn’t break the bank,” I said emphatically. He still looked as if he didn’t believe me.
“Make me a quiche,” I demanded as I started making some coleslaw; my speciality. Paul nodded.
He checks the weather online. It’s going to be mixed with a chance of showers.
“We’ll take layers. Chuck things on the back seat. The umbrella is still in the boot,” I reply, anxious to be top dog and not be put off. He nods.
We get the atlas out.
“We’ll head towards Tineo,” I say, “then down towards Cangas De Narcea.”
Paul nods. Goody, he is still listening.
“We’ll have coffee there and decide what to do next. Depends on what the time is and what the weather is like,” I say as I have his full attention at last. He nods yet again. I smile.
Eight o’clock in the morning sees us driving into the horizon. Paul is feeling the same sense of adventure that I am. The temperature gauge in the car reads five degrees centigrade. The sky is overcast but the sun is struggling through with the promise of a joy to come. I shiver.
“Cold?” Paul asks.
“No, just excited,” I reply, smiling dreamlike. Paul is good at nodding.
We stop at the local garage.
“Lleno,” Paul says to the pump attendant and he fills the tank up. So we have a tank of gas, a picnic lunch, my mobile, a handful of euros, clothes for all weathers and an atlas.
“We’re on the road again,” we sing as we pull out of the forecourt.
We drive towards La Espina. The N634 winds upwards through the wooded hills. We look out over valleys of farmland; a tapestry of spring greens, browns and yellows. The sun is breaking through the trees. The pink and white blossom glistens. The yellow and purple flowers in the hedgerow sway in the gentle breeze. Spring has arrived.
Languid hamlets perch haphazardly on the sloping hills under lazily leaning trees. We pass solitary houses, standing derelict. Their presence radiates eerie shadows over the sun lit pools that fall through the angry branches onto the rain splattered road.
On the road we passed a ramshackle house that boasted a roughly painted slogan declaring ‘out with the assassinating Guardia’. The ‘motto’, I suspect, refers back to the Civil War days. Franco ruled with an iron fist. I remember our dear neighbour telling us the common man was shot by Franco’s supporters with no regard; whole families were destroyed. Their houses and land left forgotten. A stone wall here or a rocky boundary there; all are over shadowed by a sense of eerie nostalgia. We pass many dilapidated houses shrouded in capes of ivy and other sombre foliage. Roofs have become lost in time along with walls that have crumbled just as the bones of their owners have. What stories they could tell. If only they could speak.
La Espina loomed ahead of us some forty minutes later. It’s a nondescript town; colourless in soul. It’s a town that travellers bypass. They blink and miss it. We stop. It’s sunny and chilly. The sky is blue and its four degrees. The Cafe Bar Cavadonga is open for business. We haven’t had breakfast and our stomachs cry to be filled. We each have a large coffee and a ham roll. The town is as quiet as a cemetery. Just a couple of black clad widows’ step irregularly along the street towards the grocers. It’s probably the only time in the week they get to gossip about times gone by. I’d love to listen but it’d be irreverent. Franco’s time was brutal but personal. It doesn’t seem right to listen.
A young lad sweeps the road. He’s wearing headphones that take him to a world he’ll never visit nor understand. He wants no other world than La Espina and desires no other future.
We leave La Espina and then Tineo, the scenery changes from gentle rolling hills swathed in soft greens and placid yellows. The mountains become stark. The dark heathery looking moss reveals in places the bleak multi coloured strata shaped from a million years of elements. Stone walls suggest a bygone age. No roofs remain and doors are a thing of the past. The families are gone. Their memories remain, swathed in a terror penetrated by a fanatical dictator. We drive through pueblos whose names don’t even appear on the best of maps. Their souls sing in the wind.
We reach Cangas del Narcea, a modern town with old fashioned charm. Side streets are tucked away shielding the hidden stories of the decades gone by. By then it’s nine degrees.
There are flats with fancy geranium clad balustrades overlooking the main thoroughfare. I can imagine us sitting there, drinking a glass or three of Don Mendo as we while away the days. City life here is as lethargic as it comes.
Overlooking the town are tiers of vine groves. The wine produced in the many bodegas of the area are famed throughout the region. A museum brags of a long and interesting history of winemaking.
We take coffee in the bar of the Hotel El Molinon amongst the shoppers indulging in their favourite pastime – socialising. Cigarette butts and empty sugar sachets litter the floor, tossed there by early morning patrons on their way to work. Many a deal has been signed over a pre office coffee and pincho.
It’s 11.20 and the day is young. The map indicates a scenic route south of the town. The route follows some severe bends along some apparently scenic roads; some very narrow. The map says that at their peak these roads are some 4,200 feet in height. From Cangas del Narcea we’d could see mountains crowned in virgin snow.
“Let’s go,” I tell him. He nods again.
True to the map, the road snakes higher and higher. There’s no other traffic. The temperature drops as dramatically as the sides of the roads. It begins to rain. No, it’s snowing and the whiteness inhibits the views over the valley.
“Gosh; it’s the end of March and they are in the throes of winter,” I declare to Paul.
“They forecast snow yesterday,” he replies.
“This looks as if it’s been here all winter,” I say. Paul says it’s a new fall but as we grow higher the snow looks dirtier. I feel sure I’m right but decide not to say anything. Out of nowhere we see a ski station and several dozen ski lifts head into the peaks that are even higher than the road. Several brave souls are heading to the cloud laden tips to follow the already grey and icy routes back down to a quiet and bleak hamlet that consists of a drab looking hotel settled amongst half a dozen miserable looking houses. Such is the love of skiing. The snow is falling thickly by now and the car registers 0 degrees centigrade. Paul turns the heater up and the car struggles to reach three degrees and I can’t get into third gear. The falling snow thickens. I’m driving at this time and I can hardly see feet in front of me. We look around. The mountains don’t get any higher. We have to start going down again soon, surely? As if by magic, the road descends with no warning. It’s narrow and it curves sharply but we’re alone. The falling snow lessens and the mountains turn from a silvery grey to emerald green. The hedgerows turn a sunny yellow as a mass of primroses turn their smiling heads upwards. The car registers six degrees, then seven and suddenly its eight degrees centigrade. I tease Paul that we have a heat wave.
Two hours later and a further three degrees we are back in Cangas del Narcea having done a circle. We park by the river and it’s hot. It is twelve degrees. The sun is hot. Winding the windows down we enjoy our picnic lunch. The riverside trees sway in the gentle breeze. I have to walk by the river for several minutes to cool myself down. A woman probably in her fifties is learning to drive. Her instructor has her reverse into a space large enough for a forty eight ton articulated lorry. The woman can’t quite grasp the technique of reversing the small Seat. Three times see her taking the car into angles never imagined. As we left she sat, elbow resting on the wheel and chin in hand pondering the Everest task of passing her test.
“Buen suerte,” I murmur as we leave the car park. I fear she needs all the good luck she can get.
Suitably refreshed and cooled we head back towards Tineo following the banks of the River Narcea. Somewhere along the route the temperature gauge says thirteen degrees. The trees show the imminent birth of spring. The cerulean blue river flows sufficiently to radiate a series of moderate white horses. Heavily budded branches bow towards the water as if to catche a wave. We see a cafe in the middle of nowhere, where the river has widened giving the impression of a lake. The golden sun reflects onto the glass like water. Thirst tells us to stop. The bar is empty; they’re in the middle of cleaning. Abundant bowls of hot soapy water lay around the shelves. A young girl bobs up from behind the bar and serves us our requested large white coffees and then returns to her floor cleaning with the utmost of ease. She is scrubbing away with one hand and holds a glass of wine in the other. I like her style.
Paul asks for the key of the outside toilet. He has made use of a clump of trees by the river in Cangas Del Narcea. It’s not so easy for ladies! I don’t want to go bit figure I might as well use the facilities before I do! I’m ready to hold my nose as I unlock the door. I hate to admit knowing Spanish toilets. My bottle of hand wash is secreted in my pocket. I have a wad of toilet paper from home in the other pocket. I’m surprised. The toilet is spotless; I could eat my lunch off the floor. The basin is hygienically clean with fresh soap and paper towels available. I mistakenly think I’m in the Hilton. The coffee is amongst the best we’ve tasted. This is a fishing area we decide. Why else would the bar sell sturdy, good quality fishing rods? Piles of boxes behind the bar boast a variety of bait. Hanging from the ceiling is an array of carved wooden fish. Window ledges are crammed with dozens of mock pottery jugs. We wonder if this is reflective of the mining industry we’ve seen in the area. Every so often we’d seen dark heaps of we know not what surrounded by a myriad of (to us) unknown equipment. We recall the statue in Cangas del Narcea of two miners. I remind myself that I’ll find out one day what is mined around this area.
As we left the bar, there is chilling breeze coming from the river. My hat and scarf were lobbed onto the back seat. I retrieve them. The day is closing and the temperature dropping. We turn towards Tineo. The day is dying. Our house calls. We have some picnic left for supper – washed down by the obligatory bottle of Don Mendo. Yes a day for all seasons indeed.
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Copyright © 2010 Rosalind Horne
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