the Day we went to Cangas

Tuesday
Today’s the day! This is the day we’re going on holiday. Well. We’re going away for two nights. Wow, I hear you say – two nights. That’s a holiday to us. We’ve been to London numerous times over the last four years. But the ‘but’ is that has been to visit my mum. Don’t get me wrong; I love London and I love going to see my mum. However, it isn’t a holiday per se.
This trip, we’ve chosen where we go. For us we get as much enjoyment from the planning as from the actual trip. For hours we racked our brains, studied the map, read the guide book and drawn on memories. In 2006 23’d been touring Spain and come across a place called Cangas de Onis which we’d fallen in love with. In fact on that trip we visited it twice. When we moved here, that’s where we started our house search. Cangas de Onis has special memories.
Apart from our personal reminiscences, what is so special about the town? A good friend once said it sounded like a medical complaint. She couldn’t get further from the truth! The town is one of the gateways to the Picos d’Europa Mountains where Pelayo, the eighth century Visgothic nobleman and hero of the Reconquest, set up his court. Pelayo was the first Christian king of Asturias. Despite our several visits to the town we’d not made the pilgrimage to Cavadonga, just twelve kilometres along the road. It is at Cavadonga you’ll find the tomb of Pelayo along with the ‘Santina’, the Chapel of Our Lady. We always said ‘one day’. Now was that day.
Bags packed and cat carry cases ready. Our three cats were going on holiday too. The ‘guaderia’ was expecting them. The car was soon loaded. By nine forty five we were on the road. The river at Navia had burst its banks during the horrendous rainfalls the week before and the main road just outside the town had collapsed. A detour through a small pueblo took us around the re-construction. Time will not be its friend. The road was not meant for the heavy traffic of the main road. The continuous flow of buses, coaches, lorries and holiday traffic had taken its toll. Pot holes reigned and we rode a tarmac roller coaster. Rosina showed her thoughts on the subject by depositing a pile of something rather unsavoury on her blanket. She could get away with it. Sympathy was showered upon her.
Having settled the threesome into the cattery, we hit the road. “We’re on the road again,” we sang in raucous unison as we head eastward along the E70 A8 autopista towards Aviles and then Santander. Ok, so Santander was further than we were going but it was the ideology the name suggested. It could have been Delhi, Timbuktu or Outer Mongolia. It didn’t matter; we were on the road to somewhere we didn’t need to be going. We just fancied going there and nothing was going to stop us.
We were travelling the main autopista across that spanned the top of Spain yet compared to the M25 it was a country lane. It’s often occurred to me that the word ‘traffic’ is an unknown entity here. Bypassing large towns and two lorries made the traffic heavy. In our nine year old Renault Clio we flew like the wind. Having left Navia at 11am I’d said I wanted to make our first coffee stop just after Gijon, thus having the bump of Asturias behind us. At 12.45 and 129.60 kilometres we stopped for coffee in a small non-descript service station. Luminous orange, green and yellow seats surrounded orderly Formica tables in a seemingly forsaken oasis. We ordered large coffees plus a warm ham and cheese pincho which was served nearer hot than warm. The quality was good and the price was low. We left with our appetite and pocket happily satisfied.
We’d already planned on stopping at Ribadesella en route so took exit 333 off the motorway, passing through what we considered the quaint village of Bones; pastel painted houses with gardens and window boxes full of bright red geraniums and deep purple rhododendrons.
“Them bones, them bones, them dry bones......” we sang, somewhat out of tune, hoping the locals wouldn’t be offended. Before we had time to find out, Bones was left behind us.
Some 169.20 kilometres after leaving Navia we entered Ribadesella. Parking was a premium. Eagle eyed, I spotted a car pulling away and grabbed their space. God was on my side. This coastal resort bestrides a broad estuary. On one side is the old seaport full of tapas bars beneath a cliff top chapel. The other side is a lively holiday resort. We took the chance to ‘stretch our legs’ and walked along the harbour, then around the town. We couldn’t decide whether the town had an inkling towards the old or the modern. The only notion it seemed to have was to lure the unsuspecting tourist into one of its many harbour side bars for exorbitantly priced refreshments. It had, we decided, a rather dilapidated charm. Ribadesella, to me, was just a place to stop in for a cup of coffee before going through my mirror in search of my Wonderland! If I had to live in the town, its saving grace would be the backdrop of the Picos and the vast expanse of sea along its frontage. Those two features would save my head from the claustrophobia inflicted on me by the walls of towns. Somewhere along the front we spied a severe looking boat; dark green and white. It was the ugly duckling amongst the sleek white yachts of the affluent moored in the marina. It was certainly not something I would want to sail into the sunset upon. A closer inspection revealed the words Guardia Civil upon its side. Whose reputation had gone before them? Whose boat had they come to repossess? Did we want to linger long enough to find out? No, we had better fish to fry! As we walked away in search of caffeine, we passed a vintage Rolls Royce parked amongst the battered Fiestas and aging Seats. Who owned a car like that? My imagination went into overdrive as I wondered if the Guardia Civil had noted a connection between an aging Rolls and dubious activity on a recently bought Sunseeker. Almost three o’clock; time to mosey on. No need to hang about. Just outside the town we saw a collection of multicoloured kayaks on the riverbank. Seemingly a practice had been held for when the flotilla arrives from Arriondas on the first Saturday of August. Will we be going back to watch? We’ll give it a miss; we can live without it.
Twenty minutes along the N634 we spot the turning for Pereyes. A sharp bend almost doubles back on itself. The lane narrows and we wonder where we are heading. We weren’t aware the hotel was in the back of beyond. Then before we can three blinks we spy the signs of habitation; a sign indicates our hotel, Aultre Naray, is just 150 metres further on. We’ve arrived. Swathed in tranquillity, the only sound is our breathing. There isn’t even the hum of a gentle breeze. Is this what it was like when they discovered the Marie Celeste? Signs of life and not a soul in sight. I shiver but I don’t feel fear. As we open the door of the hotel, chimes shatter the silence. As if from nowhere, a voice introduces itself.
“I’m Susanna. Good afternoon and welcome.”
“Buenas tardes. Tenemos un reservation para dos noches,” I say in my best Spanish.
“Paul and Rose from Luarca,” Paul says, helpfully.
“Ah, Miss Horne,” Susanna says and I nod. She completes our reservation form and beckons us to follow her. She takes us on a tour of the hotel.
We’d discovered this hotel via a Google search. It was instantly apparent we’d struck lucky. Small and intimate, we’d discovered a feel of ye olde worlde Spanish homeliness crossed with English Victoriana. I felt at home straight away. At the same time, I felt a touch of the supernatural. Each and every nook and cranny was just as I would have designed. Each item was what I would have chosen. The art was my kind of art. The furnishings were me.
We were in Room 5 on the first floor. Deep rose pink walls welcomed. Ivory and pink furnishings and fittings provided femininity as well as a restful masculinity. The bathroom toiletries exuded sumptuousness not normally found outside a room costing less than three figures. Subtle bouquets hang in the room, tantalising the nostrils. I felt clothed in a luxury I’d only ever dreamt of.
It was early yet and the views from the windows invited us to reach for the Picos! Most villages have a bar and a San Miguel was a good enough substitute for the Picos at four o’clock in the afternoon. God was kind and the bar was a stone’s throw from the hotel. Seemingly they didn’t serve San Miguel but Mahou sufficed. Straight from the fridge it hit the spot. We sat on plastic garden furniture ‘out front’ and watched as the floral aproned matriarch from behind the bar investigated the vegetable patch across the path in search of something succulent for the evening meal.
Having finished our Mahou, we ambled back to the hotel. It was still early. We sorted out our things and decided we’d enjoy another beer from the hotel bar. Julien, the proprietor’s hubby, served us our beer.
“Would you care to enjoy the garden?” he asked.
“Why not?” we replied.
The garden was paradise. A rainbow of flowers laced the grounds as we gazed intently skywards to the stunning peaks of the Picos. We didn’t speak but murmured, afraid to fracture the tranquillity that caressed the pueblo. The Mahou from the hotel bar cost twice that of the beer from the village bar but the atmosphere warranted the cost!
Hunger stormed our bellies. Back in our rooms, we enjoyed the picnic supper we’d taken with us. Paul had baked his speciality; a cheese and bacon quiche. This was washed down by a bottle of Don Mendo. We’d browsed the hotel menu and noted that dinner in their restaurant would have cost us 50€. Well sated, we slept well knowing that we were at least 47€ better off!
I slept the sleep of the just that night. Paul ‘got up’ during the night. He said I had the blanket pulled around my head like a baby’s bonnet.
“You looked so sweet and innocent,” he said.
“You don’t know what I was dreaming about,” I replied. He smiled and made no comment.