Deep in a valley.  At the edge of the sea. Near the end of the earth in Asturias.

Lighthouses in Asturias

If I could order a day, this would be the day I ordered.  It is a gift.  Pure blue sky.  Brilliant sun.  Not even a whisper of a cloud in the sky. The temperature of a Texas Spring.

On Day 3 of our On the Road Asturian Odyssey, we make our way west on the squiggly N632, weaving back and forth under the autovia. The tiny villages enchant me and I want them to last as long as possible, but looking at my map I see trouble up ahead in the form of Villaviciosa and Gijón, especially Gijón, it is the size of Oviedo.  I turn on Gladys and program her to take us to Cabo de Peñas.  Seeing  Spanish lighthouses are beginning to be a challenge. I have failed in my last three attempts. The gauntlet has been thrown down and I am equal to the challenge.

Looking at the map of Spain I tell Michael we are headed to the farthest point north on the Costa Verde. I am glad Gladys is guiding us; this tiny bump of Spanish geography is riddled with small lines indicating smaller lanes.

Cabo de Peñas

Arriving at Cabo de Peñas, we can’t find a place to park—perfect weather bringing out the hordes. We drive in circles waiting for someone to leave.

The lighthouse is defunct, to the point that the light is wrapped in white plastic; the building has been turned into a museum of aquatic life in and around the Cantabrian Sea.  There are numerous trails and we follow the crowds. The earth has been torn and shattered and gouged, sheer cliffs drop precipitously to the water below.  A dried and decayed bouquet of flowers lies at the edge of one of these deadly precipices. It bothers me, these dead flowers, and I hope that there is no significance in their placement.

We walk further and see a small restaurant.  Many people sit at tables—none of them eating—all drinking.  Back in the car we continue our journey west.

Cabo Busto

It is not quite two o’clock and our stomachs start to growl.  There is a small town with a beach and a lighthouse just to the east of where we will be staying.  I am sure there will be a place to eat. We follow the signs to a restaurant, but somehow we lose our way.

I can tell Michael is impatient with me.  He thinks I know what I’m doing.  I haven’t a clue—I’m just looking at a map and guessing.  Villages this small are not in my guidebook and restaurant recommendations are few and far between. We pull into a parking space by a tiny playground.  Looking up I see signs with maps in front of me, and a large rust-colored building in the near distance with the word BAR painted in bold white print near the roofline.

The proprietor sadly shakes his head when we ask about comida and uses one finger to tell us, not for another hour.  Three o’clock.  I’m not sure I can become this Spanish. We stop at the sign by our parked car and I proceed to explain to Michael why we drove this way.  We head for the Cabo Busto light.

Fewer people. More trails. Ravaged earth. Blue sky. Bluer sea.  The sky can’t compete.  The ocean is a blue so deep it is like nothing at home. There are picnic tables, but we did not plan accordingly.  I suggest we check in at our small hotel and ask the owner where to have lunch.

Lunch and dos cervezas

The directions are very explicit, but when we get to the stone house—Meson Tia Maria—where we are supposed to turn right I get rather excited.

“Michael pull over, into their parking lot—I think this is a restaurant,” and it is…and they don’t serve lunch till 3 p.m.

We hear music across the street, we round the corner and see a bar.  It is the Spanish way.  You drink for an hour—maybe two—before each meal and then you eat — lunch at 3 p.m., dinner at 10 p.m.

Michael says, “Let’s just get a beer.”  Not my favorite, but anything in a pinch, and the Spaniards do not let you drink without offering some kind of nibble on the side. Mike returns with dos cervezas, a tiny stack of bread, and sliced chorizo.

“They are serving food, but they don’t have a menu,” he tells me.  He also mentions that it is rather wild inside. We settle for ham sandwiches, our waiter says “Queso?” Nodding our agreement, we are served an American style grilled ham and cheese sandwich with patatas fritas. It is kind of delicious.

It seems everyone in the village has arrived for the food the vino and the cerveza. The music throbs, an older gentleman grabs a lady who is about to leave and begins dancing.  Everyone laughs. Kids are all part of it.  I love this life.

Portizuelo

Michael asks me how we get to the hotel, I explain that we drive down the street in front of us till we reach the church, then we take a very narrow lane on the left side of the church, following it to the end till we see a sign that says Portizuelo…then we follow that road to the end.

The road ends at the sea, on a very rocky beach.  Michael back’s the car up the hill. We are at the end of the earth, deep in a valley, at the edge of the sea.  And there are sheep.  A goat.  And two dogs, and a very soft-spoken gentleman from Argentina, who came to Europe to be a conductor in Vienna.  I ask if the hotel is new and Daniel tells me it was a ruin. Nothing but rubble when he found it.  Stucco covers old stone and the interior is a modern gleaming marvel of shining marble floors and foam white walls. There is even an elevator in this nine bedroom pequeño hotel.

We store our suitcases in the room assigned to us and are off to the beach…not to sunbathe but to see the sculptured rocks up close that we barely glimpsed when we drove too far down this one car lane. Sitting on the very rocky beach in the shade of a large outcropping of bigger rocks, I find a smooth round stone.  I slip it into my pocket.

The sun is warm, the wind is cool, the rocks are hard.  Beach chairs – aren’t. We pick our bottoms up off the rocks and chug up the hill for a glass of wine on the sunny terrace that is adjacent to our room.

We read and nap and talk and I dress for dinner. Soothing classical music wafts in from speakers discreetly hidden.

Finca Portizuelo

My head spins at all we have seen and done in three days, and the magnificence of the Asturian landscape. It is a place I never knew existed until a book fell open at just the right page and pointed me to Oviedo in the center of Asturias.  It is a land I could not have dreamed of, but one I am so glad we found.  When I think of Asturias I will forever see a kaleidoscope of deep green mountains, and spring green pastures; deep blue water and magnificent craggy cliffs; golden crescent beaches; the gift of sun and the expectation of rain; a happy people with a joy for life; stucco houses the color of the earth and sky, capped with rust-red tiled roofs.

Michael and I are always finding a reason to toast each other whenever we have a drink in our hands.  Tonight I toast our good fortune.  “We are so lucky,” I say.  Michael doesn’t disagree.

I didn’t photograph our journey into Finca Portizuelo, so as we leave I do not sit in the passenger seat, but I walk behind the car, seeing and feeling the place close up.  And Michael doesn’t know it yet, but there are more squiggly roads in his immediate future.  There is always a better way than the highway to take us home.