It’s assumed that the yearly summer migration of the northern tourist to anywhere south of Paris is purely based upon a desperate search for the sun. That’s only half true.
On any given camp site, if a study was conducted to establish the numbers of those lying in the sun compared to those sitting in the shade, then most likely the latter would come out on top. Why? It’s warmth that’s hankered for, coupled with long dry days and bearable evenings. Naturally, the sun is relied upon to supply both!
Day 44 – With temperatures constantly in the thirties and little air movement, we decide to do the moving instead. Head north to the cooler coast with the hope of sea breezes at Camping Entre Playas – Llanes (pronounced Yaneth).
En-route, Beastie takes us for a spectacular 40K ride through the Picos de Europa, which cuts through the Cantabrian Mountains. Here’s a nine minute flavour.
Day 45 – This is not what we had in mind. Perched on a stunted peninsular no bigger than Tom Thumb, the mountains and sea-mist contrive to envelope any visible signs of life in its ghostly spectre.
Llanes started life as a fishing village, still is to a certain extent. Situated in easy walking distance of a couple of stunning rocky coves, embellished with fine sand, its tourist revenue now adds to its fishing coffers.
We’ve heard there’s a coastal walk or two. So we venture out. Disregard the low overhead threat. Pretend it’s sunny. Shorts and t-shirts. Less to dry. Mr S checks all local tracks and trails on this jagged headland. Maps out a suitable loop.
It seems not all tracks still exist. Despite the dotted lines on MAPS. A couple of dead ends lead to a couple of frustrating backtracks. Moreso for Mrs S, who rightly remains dubious about any route Mr S plots. He constantly confirms her suspicions that he’s gradually losing the plot! So on cue, we make our own diversion. Take a roadside walk. Into the pretty village of Cue.
The return kerb-side crawl passes some yet to be bully-beef, enjoying the graze. They provide a picturesque gaze. Completely in tune with nature.
Mr S is still pondering over one of the dead-ends. Mrs S provides the perfect cue. She knows he hates to be thwarted. “Why don’t you go and see if you can find that supposed trail. I’ll meet you back at camp”.
He does just that.
The track seems to run out here . . .
Once through, the trail comes back into view . . .