Kids love playing in the mud and getting mucky. Especially boys. Even when grown up, some of us men can sometimes find it difficult to resist the temptation of a muddy puddle, or two.
Bit by bit, little be little, we continue to edge westward. Follow the sun. Knowing there’s no chance of falling off the edge. So long as we keep our feet firmly on the ground. The Basque and Cantabria regions catch a red glimmer from Beastie’s rear lights as we cross over into Asturias. We’re nestled between sea and mountains. Two sun-searchers. Imagined inventions in some strange Greek tragedy. Half flying-goat, half flying-fish. Wanting to burn, but not quite like Icarus, showing no fear of falling into the sea.
There’s a constant weather battle along this beautiful and rugged coastline. Cantabrian Sea versus Picos de Europa mountain range. Sea breeze versus mountain rain clouds. Two immortal warriors in an endless battle till the end of time. Days of dry weather and lots of night time rain, currently the norm. Today starts dry. So this morning we head up into the hills, rather than mountains. Horns and wings not fully formed.
The afternoon’s two hour sunny window comes as more of a shock than a surprise. Playa de la Griega, welcomes our sun-creamed torsos, and its surfers’ waves offer the perfect cool down.
Meanwhile back at camp, an army is at work. All of the residents are preparing to leave. This camp closes for the season in four days. Each year they abscond for four summer months, as this site becomes their second home, creating a shanty ghetto of sunning lay-abouts.
Ancient caravans are fastidiously emptied and cleaned. Awnings and floor coverings laid outside. Brushed and scrubbed until nearly new. Fridges, freezers, cookers, BBQs, boxes and furniture pile up. Patiently waiting their turn for the removal man. A queue of refugee look-alikes, not wanting to leave one single possession behind.
