For some reason the name of this place was proving difficult to hang on to. Francine had an aide memoire word: Tapioca. In my case, Tilapia sprang to mind.

Whatever it was called it was a long hop for this itinerary of about 200 kms but it was broken by a tour of Sidra Crespo. Leader Andy’s partner, Pati, is Spanish and did an excellent job of simultaneous translation as the head lady explained their processes.

Spanish sidra is a dry, flat affair but they have ways of trying to inject some life into it. These include pouring it into a glass from a great height or using a tabletop pump device which siphons it out of a botte into a glass in a holder. Either way, the trick is to pour only a mouthful at a time, which can be drunk before it loses the added air.

Following the sidra tour there was, of course, the obligatory gift shop where we bought a bottle together with some smoked cheese; leader Andy thinks cheese makes a good accompaniment.

After pausing at a bar in the nearby town for coffee and a bocadillo [sandwich], we headed off to our clifftop campsite at Tapia de Casariego. Levelling proved a bit tricky – could’ve done with higher ramps so Frodo was at a bit of an angle – but it was a well equipped campsite with the reception supplying bread avoiding the need to go downhill into town.

The clifftop provided some great views of waves crashing on rock formations. I’d been wanting an opportunity to get the tripod out and play with my Big Stopper ND filter to smooth out the water. Here it was, though given all the long grass at the cliff edge, getting the tripod settled and stable – there was a stiff breeze – was quite a challenge.

At low tide, a modest collection of waders was working along the water’s edge.

Early on our second morning, I found Francine sitting on rocks at the top of the beach, not wanting to spoil the smooth sand with her footprints. I understood completely, it did look pristine.

Our visit to Tapia de Casariego ended on our second evening with a great team meal down near the harbour in town. Naturally, we lubricated our taste buds first with a few drinks overlooking the harbour. After drinks, Andy’s restaurant choice kept us well supplied with a wonderful variety of raciones.

Everyone had to walk both ways in and out of town ‘cos taxis – there were apparently three – were notable by their absence, for a variety of reasons. The quality of the food was such that it was all worthwhile, though.

Luxury, a 3-night stop. Our campsite was a couple of kilometres out of town. We managed to get a decent enclave in the campsite for our little collection of motorhomes.

On our first full day we walked down hill for a visit to the Tito Bustillo prehistoric cave. It is named after one of its discoverers who later died in a climbing accident. Numbers on tours into the cave are strictly controlled and leader Andy had a booking for 11:00.

This is archaeology and prehistory so it isn’t exactly my cup of tea but seeing some of the cave paintings was quite interesting. The tunnel into the main chambers of the cave was about 600m long. Photography is not allowed in the cave so you’ll have to use your imagination. The paintings featured horses and deer, for the main part.

We’d been underground for about 75 minutes before emerging back into daylight and crossing the bridge over the river Sella into the main part of town for a coffee. After our coffee group split up Francine and I went in search of a restaurant for what leader Andy refers to as sea monsters; he is not a seafood fan. We found a pleasant but slightly windy restaurant and enjoyed yet more zamborinas [scallops] this time supplemented by a classic pulpo a la Galega [octopus on potatoes sprinkled with paprika]. Being on foot, we did, of course, have another bottle of white wine.

Andy did the group proud in the evening catering for a 12-person barbecue on relatively limited cooking facilities. Some of us chipped in to assist with other offerings including various salads and a bowl of padron peppers which I prepared for a starter. Afterwards I brought out my box of Orgasmos which turned out to be rather unexciting biscuits. They did, however, cause the required level of amusement. I have to say they are grossly oversold. What else did I expect?

We were left to our own devices for our second day in Ribadesella but of course, being seafood fans, Francine and again wandered down into town in search of lunch. We found a restaurant with an appealing menu in the more sheltered opposite end of the harbour area.

On the menu here were navajas [razor clams] which we had been keen to get for a while. Navajas literally means knives in Spanish. They do look a bit like a cutthroat razor. Ordered these without a second thought and when they came, they turned out to be the sweetest, most delicious navajas that we could remember eating. They can a little gritty but theses were not; quite superb.

Our second choice was a bit of a disappointment, to be honest. We’d ordered calamar which should have been squid but what we were given was a chunky cuttlefish. This really was one of Andy’s sea monsters. I think this would more normally be called sepia. It was OK but it has to be said cuttlefish is not my favourite.

We’d ordered a third dish which was, in truth, a bit over the top. It was interesting though. This was a local morcilla [black pudding] which, we discovered, was wrapped in seaweed. The morcilla was fine but it was served on tortos, maize flour discs which were little more than sponges that soaked up lashings of cooking oil. Aubergine slices can soak up a lot of oil but it ain’t got nothing on tortos. Having taken an experimental bite, we didn’t eat them.

Francine was aware of a curiosity in Ribadesella, which we went in search of. This was the escalera de colores, a coloured stairway. A local artist had the idea of people turning up, painting a step and writing a sentence on it. It’s a nice idea that was narrower than I expected, between a couple of buildings, but it’s quite long and does add a splash of colour to the neighbourhood.

On our way to Ribadesella, we made an intermediate stop at Llanes. There is a very useful but quite rough parking area for motor vans on the edge of town. Once parked and assembled we walked a circuitous route into town along the clifftops where there was some spectacular wave action against the cliffs. I wasn’t expecting such an opportunity and did not have my camera to play with its built-in ND filter function. Lose 10 points – should’ve known better.

We paused at a café for, yes, a coffee, where we could also watch the traditional art of high pouring sidra [cider] into glasses held much lower down. It was done behind a floor-standing shield device for protection. Spanish sidra is flat, rather like scrumpy, so it is poured about a yard above the glass to introduce some air (and spillage if the pourer is less than accurate). If they want it fizzy, why don’t they make it fizzy? Hmmm. Tradition, I suppose.

After coffee we were free to wander for a while and went In search of seafood for lunch. We found an interesting menu outside one restaurant and went in. Six of us sat at a table whereupon a waiter came over, opened one of the menus and proceeded to go through it deleting all the interesting stuff that had originally attracted us in, muttering “no possible”,“no possible”, “no possible”. We got up and walked out.

Three of our number chose to wend their way back, things proving too difficult. Eventually we three remaining musketeers, found another restaurant ostensibly offering zamboriñas [scallops] and rabas [squid] served with squid ink allioli. They don’t seem to call squid calamari in these parts. Happily this restaurant did actually have what its menu offered. We sat and enjoyed a very decent lunch, though at lunchtime they do seem to expect you to order a larger meal.

The Picos de Europa have an enviable reputation for being very picturesque. We were going to find out.

We drove up the Desfiladero de la Hermida, a canyon-like road to Potes, or TES-PO if you read the road. Why do they think writing “PO” below “TES” on the road helps, just because that’s the bit you come to first? When you see both syllables in a single view, you naturally read top down and “TES” is at the top. This approach looked even sillier as, a few days ago, we were apparently approaching DER-TAN-SAN. Oo-er.

On our way up the Desfiladero de la Hermida were three sets of lengthy single track, traffic light controlled roadworks causing delays. One of these had one lane of the road missing completely though rather than having collapsed, it may be being widened; I couldn’t quite figure out which.

At one of the roadwork sections, a cyclist was in front. He waved the car in front of us past but then entered the narrow section so that we had to follow him at cycling speed. Being an electric bike, he was doing quite well but we did feel a bit hampered. When he could, he pulled off into the newer road section beyond the traffic cones so we could continue. What a nice man..

We had been assigned very pleasant pitches on the top terrace of our campsite. We were at a mere 400m altitude but the views of the higher peaks of the Picos were a joy to behold.

There was a restaurant on the campsite where we had a group meal. Most of the menu was decidedly tedious but the menu del diá held some interest: a local stew/soup, whose name I can’t remember, with masses of chickpeas and a smattering of sausage, lamb and cabbage. The soup, the cooking broth, was served first, separately. With a combination of meat and pulses it was a bit like a French cassoulet though, decent though it was, a rather pale shadow of one.

The following morning we joined a group wander for the 2 kms trek down into Potes. Happily, there was a good footpath running beside the road all the way.

We walked past the local market to get to the tourist attraction here which was the Torre del Infantado, a chunky, square, stone tower housing exhibits from history. The basement level featured weapons and instruments of torture. Well, there’s a surprise. On higher levels were somewhat more peaceful illustrated historical manuscripts. I found the interior panelling of the tower the most captivating; it was only plywood but the patterns on the surface were very appealing.

Back at the campsite, I did lash out on a bottle of Orujo in the campsite shop. Leader Andy described Orujo as a Spanish brandy but, in truth, it was much more like a Spanish version of grappa. “Cold!”, exclaimed the man who sold it to me. I put it the freezer to comply.

We moved on to Caravanning Oyambre, just outside Comillas. This was a pleasant enough campsite with a pleasant enough bar, which deserved sitting at just to check that the beer was also pleasant enough. It was.

The site is “close” to Oyambre beach; close if you think a 2km walk makes it close. I had to correct my impression that the site was more or less right beside the beach. Francine and I wandered down to check it out.

There are a few campsites here, better avoided by sane folks, that are pretty much full of the would be surfing community. Yes, the beach attracts surfers in their droves, though for a large part of the time they seemed to be walking about the sand carrying their surfboards rather than attempting to ride waves with them.

The main tourist attraction in these parts is the first house ever designed by Antoni Gaudí, he of Barcelona cathedral fame, el Capricho. It was begun in 1883 and, unlike its much larger and more famous sibling, was actually finished (in 1885). Leader Andy had arranged a couple of cabs to take us down the 5kms or so into town so we could admire it.

I managed to damage my head on entering the first MPV-like taxi with a lower-than-usual sliding door – ‘t was hiding behind my hat brim, guv. I just about managed to avoid denting the car’s doorframe.

When we got to señor Gaudí’s (over)ornate house, I can’t say that I did admire it. According to the Rough Guide, “it has a whimsical tower adorned, like most of the exterior, with glazed handmade sunflower tiles”. In fact, you really can’t see anything but glazed sunflower tiles, so thickly coated with them is it.

In all honesty, I thought it was a pretty ugly monstrosity. Whimsical or not, in my view it takes more than going overboard on gaudy [read Gaudí?] decoration to make a good architect.

As one might expect, after visiting the house we repaired to the port to find a glass of reality correction fluid.

A mere hour or so away from Santander was our third área de autocaravanas and it was the most densely packed yet. This is not a place that you come for the pleasure of camping. We were actually luckier than most in having pitches on the highest terrace looking across the lower terrace to the reportedly picturesque [read tourist trap] village beyond. some of our pitches were around a slight curve so had a little more space.

Santillana del Mar is a medieval village and one of the honey pot destinations of Spain with its reputation of being the most attractive village in the country. Having got installed, Francine and I wandered down the short distance, less than a kilometre, to the village itself to see if we could find some interesting seafood for lunch. Our leader, Andy, makes a big thing of strongly disliking what her refers to as “sea monsters” but we can’t get enough.

We succeeded. One restaurant with an open-air terrace at the rear, away from the bustling street, offered some interesting menu options.  We plumped for zamboriñas [scallops] and pulpo a la plancha [griilled octopus] which, as seems usual for octopus, came on some potato, in this case mashed. ‘T was very good especially, as nobody was driving, when washed down with a bottle of white wine. We think we saw an Egyptian Vulture cruising about overhead, not that I was equipped for it.

We walked off lunch looking at more medieval streets, eventually sitting down at the Parador in the Plaza Mayor, the main square, for a beer, accompanied by some of our travelling companions.

A classical tourist trap shop in the square was selling gaudy pink boxes, decorated with gender symbols, of Orgasmos. I had no idea what they might be but how could I resist? I thought they might be useful at a group BBQ that we expecting a little later in the trip.

We’re off to Santander. Well, more accurately we are off to Somo, which is just across the bay from Santander. There is a pedestrian ferry ride to get you into Santander itself. Somo was a little over an hour’s drive away.

Leaving the área de autocaravanas site at Bilbao was a bit pedestrian – with almost a hundred units on site and every unit being a motorhome/campervan, there is naturally a queue for the motor vehicle service points; at least they have two. If you do not want the service points, you still can’t leave because the way is blocked by the waiting line of those who do need them. Brilliant.

The next site was also for autocaravanas only. It had an automated, camera-controlled barrier. Our instructions said, “as you drive up to the barrier swing slightly left; the camera should read your number plate and open”. The operative word there is should. It didn’t. We juggled back and forth changing the angle several times and still it didn’t do what it should have done. Having failed to get a tram ticket from the automated machine in Bilbao, we now had a campsite refusing to admit us.

Our leader, Andy, called the guardian who arrived on an e-scooter. He gesticulated for us to try again at a couple of angles, which we must have already tried. Still no joy, the camera clearly hadn’t read the operating manual, never mind our number plate.

There’s no magic button at the gate but the guardian did, it seems, have a remote control fob tucked away in his pocket. Finally the gate did slide reluctantly open. One other of our number had also had difficulty entering. Getting out tomorrow could be fun, given the exit camera.

At 14:30 our group wandered down towards the ferry in Somo, to head into Santander. It began raining and our umbrellas came out. Our intended ferry departure had been cancelled; apparently it was low tide and the ferry was unable to dock. We repaired to a bar to wait for the next sailing. The bar had awnings to keep off most of the rain.

The next sailing time to Santander was approaching. At gone 15:00 I decided it was getting a bit late for me to be wandering around a potentially rain-soaked town so I chose to stay behind (with another glass of vino tinto). Then I’d return to Frodo and cook dinner to await Francine’s return.I’d make a pork paella.

The main attraction billed on our tour was the grandly named Museo D Prehistoria Y Archaeologia D Cantabria. Wow, what a mouthful. Archaeology and prehistory? I didn’t think I’d be missing much. The artefacts looked well presented, though, given Francine’s couple of pictures, just not me.

Francine did manage to find something to satisfy her more artistic leanings with a reflection of the cathedral in a small pool.

As I was waiting, a message arrived from Francine: in gusty high winds, the ferry was having a serious amount of difficulty docking in Santander to bring them back. The captain had made several failed attempts. With (I’m told}  no fenders on the stern, one attempt had even stuffed the stern of the boat into the dock and damaged it – the boat, not the dock. Eventually, though, the ferry got in to allow passengers on board to disembark and those waiting to board.

We had a slightly later paella than anticipated.

I was on familiar territory as our group set off once again to walk down into Bilbao. We descended the first three lifts that I’d found then were on traditional steps to get most of the rest of the way down. Finally there was a fourth lift but really it did very little to help. We went down the steps beside it. Opposite was a bus stop where we could catch a bus that would return us to the camper van park.

Next we tried a different mode of transport. Bilbao has one tramline with one of it stops being just outside the Guggenheim. We boarded at the hospital station which is where we would disembark a return tram later in the day.

We had our first peek at the Guggenheim as our group left the tram and began wandering beside the river. Francine, who wanted to go into the Guggenheim anyway, was pleased to see that there was an exhibition on by Helen Frankenthaler, an abstract artist with whom she was familiar. We’ll return later to do our own thing.

As we were passing the large spider sculpture outside the museum (which, other than having eight legs, looks little like a spider), some generated mist from the “moat” began drifting adding some atmosphere to the scene.

Via another tram ride, we ended up in the old town for lunch where we had another helping of pinchos at a restaurant in the main square. After a necessary refresher, we all wandered up to an extensive food selection and we each chose three pinchos that appealed to us. I picked a squid croquetta, which was really a squid ink croquetta, a goats cheese concoction and finally a crab salad, which turned out to be my favourite (even though it was more than likely made from crab sticks).

To help our digestion after lunch, Francine and I walked back through the streets to the Guggenheim. We had a bit of a play with our cameras around the outside before Francine went in to get her fill of Helen Frankenthaler, as well as the other exhibits. I stayed outside doing what more I could with the Guggenheim architecture.

After I’d had my fill of pretending to be artistic, I walked over to a pleasant looking garden café with umbrellas for shade. I sat waiting for a few minutes but when a Dutch couple (I think) on the neighbouring table started having a video call for all to hear with a friend or relative, I left my table and wandered back to the Guggenheim to have a more relaxing coffee from the vending cart outside. I do hate modern communication technology and ethics, or lack thereof.

After an hour or so Francine came out of the Guggenheim and found me. We made our way back to the tram station to buy tickets to get us back to the hospital stop and a bus back to the campsite. Tickets are ordered and dispensed by a touch-screen-controlled machine which steadfastly refused to respond to our touches. After several failed attempts I spotted two security guards on the opposite platform and gesticulated to enlist their help. Things didn’t exactly go smoothly for our helper either but eventually she managed to procure us two tickets, which she then had to validate with today’s date. In due course a tram arrived and we boarded, as did the security guards and a ticket inspector, who duly inspected our hard-won tickets.

The bus was a simpler affair with a driver to issue tickets. Simpler, that is, other than remembering which number you wanted,was it 58 or 85? Both served this same bus stop.

We were heading to our first motor-vans-only “caravan park” overlooking Bilbao. I dislike driving around Bilbao, which we’ve done several times on our way in and out of Spain during the halcyon days of having Casa Libelula down in Jalon. I don’t remember doing it without making some kind of a mistake, such are the criss-crossing multi-level main roads making spaghetti junction look like a child’s affair.

As we were approaching, I thought we had yet again taken a wrong turning but I’m still not sure, given the rather tortuous approach. We eventually arrived at the área de autocaravanas. More accurately, we eventually arrived at the rear of the six or seven long entry queue of motorhomes on the single carriageway road outside the site. The road is also used by a public bus service. The bus was blocked behind the motorhome line and the driver was not a happy camper.

After a while, madame came out and wandered up and down the line gesticulating wildly for motorhomes to bugger off, or words to that effect; it seems the park was full. On her second pass, I opened the window and said we had a booking. “Andy?”, she enquired, then shepherded us around the queue into a holding position. Approach to this site was worse than Heathrow with an air traffic control go slow.

After a little more shuffling, the barrier was eventually raised for us and we managed to occupy our reserved pitch.

The plan had been to take in a fine arts museum followed by the Guggenheim. The afternoon was now marching on but leader Andy had rearranged the art museum tickets for 17:00. My companions also marched on, down into the depths of Bilbao. With me being a self-confessed artistic numbskull, this late in the afternoon I chose to stay in the campsite.

A while later, getting a little stir-crazy, I thought I might take a walk out to find an intriguing feature of this part of Bilbao. There is a series of lifts [elevators for any Americans] to help pedestrians make their way down and back up the cliffside to the city itself. They are intended mainly for the inhabitants of apartments built on the cliffside but there they stand for anyone to use.

For a brief, foolish moment, I thought I might then join my fellow campers down below. Not knowing quite what the lifts would look like, I did succeed in finding three of them and rode down. There are glass-sided lift shafts with approach bridges so are quite obvious once you get close to them. When I then saw the mass of Bilbao, still some way below me and sprawling between me and the museums, reinforced by an explanatory note from Francine saying that I stood no chance, I thought again and returned to the relative safety of Frodo. The gang eventually also returned after cutting short their visit missing out the Guggenheim but spending more time in a bar instead.

We’re in Bilbao tomorrow as well and will try the Guggenheim again. Whilst the museum’s contents may not fascinate me, the outside architecture of the building does. Tomorrow I will go with them for a bit of exercise … and a drink.

Camping Igara provides a 9-seat shuttle bus down onto the edge of San Sebastién and back, at appointed times. We piled in to the shuttle at 10:00, with a few of our more energetic travellers choosing to walk down.

We had about a 45-minute walk from where we were dropped off to the more interesting area of San Sebastién, namely the harbour and, a little beyond that, the old town. Beside the promenade was a modestly sized statue of Don Quixote. This was a competition prototype of the larger statue in Madrid. Francine zoomed in on some detail.

The harbour area was absolutely heaving. The population of San Sebastién had grown allegedly by 100,000 because there was an event on in the harbour. It’s called Bandera de la Concha and, to me, resembled Cornish pilot gig racing except these boats have crews of 13. The rowing teams had all brought their respective fans and support groups with them, hence the population explosion. With the crowds and the noise this was not really my natural habitat, interesting though it was.

Having gawped at the rowing for a while our leader was keen to get a table for a lunch of pinchos as early as possible, which proved to be 12:00, when one suitable place opened up. Close to 13:00 the Spanish would all descend on the restaurants and there’d be no tables free, especially given the increased population. We sat at a table to get served with drinks before heading to the counter and selecting some of the restaurants excellent tapas.

After my main event of the day, lunch, there was a bit more wandering about involving window shopping for some, before Francine and I decided to walk the 45 minutes back to wait for our 15:00 return shuttle bus. Others chose to avoid the walk and used one of the city buses.

Francine and I found a bar just near the pick-up point and settled down to wait with a drink or two. Eventually other folks turned up who looked as if they, too, were waiting for the shuttle bus. Then another few of our group, including leader Andy, also turned up. By the time the shuttle arrived were were two too many. A few couples doubled up with ladies perched on laps, probably entirely illegally.

A common problem with such arrangements is that folks drift into town on various buses but then all want to return on the same bus. We’d had exactly the same issue visiting Cordoba and its mosque last year, the last return bus being heavily subscribed.

Francine’s phone reckoned we’d clocked up about 17,000 steps.