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.
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