Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/14/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-31-23-11-02-a-different-milieu-in-gijon-asturias/

I head south from Gijón, arriving at the Valporquero cave a bit early. The access to it is the, by now obligatory, steep, serpentine road. The parking lot is deserted so I snooze out a bit. When I awake, a few more cars have appeared. I go into the park building and join a group of 9 other tourists. We sit around a table with hardhats and headlamps in front of each of us. The guide asks if I speak Spanish. I respond “more or less” and state that I’ll manage. The narration is not going to be in English. After a short orientation, we don our helmets and walk down an access path to the gaping maw of the cave entrance.

Valporquero is a large cave, well explored and developed with stairs, railings, and lighting (which is off by default to preserve the lightless environment). The upper, older level is relatively dry while the newer lower level has, in the wet season, a rushing river and other groundwater penetrations. I’ve come at the right time of year. Our guide, Juan Carlos, is very patient and thorough and the substantial portions of the lecture he gives at each stop that I miss aren’t too serious as I already know quite a lot about caves and limestone geology. My many childhood hours dogging the footsteps of countless US National Park Service naturalists educated me well.

We work our way through both levels, doing a lot of climbing and descending, using our headlamps except during stops in elaborately carved rooms where the lights are turned on for a few minutes. There are incredible stalactite, stalagmite, flowstone, and every other limestone formation you can imagine. At various times, we’re walking along a rushing river, past waterfalls spouting out of holes in the ceiling, and down narrow tunnels connecting large chambers. In one small pool, Juan Carlos points out tiny, swimming, white crustaceans, which I later determine are Parabathynellids, no more than an eighth inch long.

I could verbally describe dozens of cave features but despite my enthusiasm you would just quit reading. You just have to be there. The photos below show some of them, if in a very amateur quality. The very satisfying tour runs 3 hours and it’s only as we pass a larger group walking without safety gear that I realize I’ve luckily stumbled into the in depth version rather than the standard tourist access.

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Finally, Juan Carlos dismisses the group to exit the cave on their own and accompanies me back to the crustacean pool so I can try to get some photos. This dedicated attempt doesn’t do particularly well. Even with a macro lens, getting good images of tiny, wriggling, underwater creatures bu headlamp light is almost impossible. It’s very generous of him to give me the opportunity.

As the two of us emerge from the cave, we’re greeted by the unexpected — it’s snowing!

Back in the car, I decide to spend the night in nearby León. The Berlingo is due for an oil change and I want to cook tonight. I also want to calibrate the fuel gauge, which I try to do with each car I own. This involves carrying a can of spare fuel, purposely running the tank dry to measure how far I can go after the “Low Fuel” light comes on, and then refilling the tank to reach the next gas station. A few weeks ago, Jordi gave me an unneeded fuel can that I’ve been carrying around ever since. Before I run the tank dry, I want to be sure I can actually get fuel from my can into it. The can’s spout is missing, so at a Home Depot-like store I buy a cheap funnel with a long, flexible neck. I’m going to rehearse the fuel transfer ahead of time to avoid potential roadside embarrassment.

It’s a good thing I do because when I insert the funnel neck into the fill spout, it’s blocked. The little door that opens automatically when I insert the standard diesel nozzle at a gas station won’t move. A little online research reveals this is a safety measure to prevent accidentally putting gasoline into a diesel vehicle, but I can’t find a clear explanation of how to release the door when I’m away from a diesel pump.

Deferring that problem, I get some dinner supplies at a Lidl and then check into the likely looking Albergue de Santo Tomás de Canterbury. It’s my typical choice: clean, decently equipped, and cheap. It’s on the ground floor of a modern building with ample street parking outside. It turns out to be quite suitable but without social interaction. The dormitory room is shared with only one other guest, a seedy looking. middle aged Italian who spends, literally, hours on the phone with his mother back home arguing and cajoling at full volume. I wish I had recorded a bit of it.

I cook a good dinner but am shocked to find the kitchen doesn’t include a guest refrigerator. I’ve never come across a hostel without one. In the space where it should be is a giant, junk food vending machine. I’m forced to store my perishables inn the car even though it isn’t particularly cool this evening. I put great stock in a well equipped functional kitchen in a hostel but I seem to be in the minority. Most guests seem perfectly happy getting take out food, even (yecch) Dominos Pizza, which is apparently a global, rather than just US, disaster. Only occasionally do I encounter someone else cooking a meal.

I’m loaded and out early in the morning, heading to an internet-rated shop for an oil change. When the owner arrives, I make my request but, although sympathetic, he says he’s booked solid for days. While I have his attention, I ask about my fuel fill puzzler. He takes a look but doesn’t have an answer and is too busy to pursue it further. I ask him for a referral and drive to that nearby shop. The manager there first says come back at 2 PM. When I say that’s impossible, he says leave the car and it will be ready by noon.

I ask him, too, about the fuel fill. He insists that I just push the door aside with a screwdriver, but I already know that’s incorrect. I puzzle over the issue further and realize that since the door opens when the standard diesel nozzle is inserted, the release mechanism must be in the circumference of the tube. Fooling around with a pair of chopstick, I discover that pressing outward simultaneously at two specific points opens the door. Problem solved.

To while away the hours until noon, I improvise a walking tour of León. Of course, it has to start outside the cathedral – will the Catholic Church never give up? Despite its impressive architecture, the only unusual thing about it is an array of about ten police cars and officers arrayed in front. An obvious public relations flack (you can recognize them in every “advanced” culture) is yelling instructions to the officers while a photographers snaps pictures. I find it interesting that the chosen backdrop is the cathedral. Separation of church and state?

Continuing my walk, I pass the Museum of Emigrants, the second curious honoring of the many who couldn’t make it in Spain and left to create a better life elsewhere. It looks interesting enough to buy a ticket but it doesn’t open for two hours, so I pass it up.

At noon, I’m back to retrieve the car. A full synthetic oil change is fairly pricey here, about $120, but the intervals are long so it’s no burden. I head out of town toward the western coast, which faces the full Atlantic Ocean rather than the more protected Bay of Biscay to the north. Along the way, I run out of gas, as expected, and now know I can go about 115 miles after the “Low Fuel” light comes on. This knowledge is unimportant in Europe but could be essential in Morocco. Refueling is no problem even though the car, of course, decides to stop right at a construction zone lane drop so semi-trucks are whizzing by within a foot or two of me as I try to make myself paper thin while holding my gas can in the funnel. Had I not made a dry run earlier, I would have been stranded.

Later in the afternoon, I reach the coast and check in to another albergue. My drive is over after a productive day.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/17/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-03-23-11-05-i-add-spains-lands-end-to-my-collection-of-alaskas-and-south-americas-versions/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/13/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-29-23-10-31-surf-city-here-i-come-but-not-surf-city-usa/

Inés is a semi-retired teacher, living in a nice view apartment above the Gijón small boat harbor with a nephew as a part time boarder.

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She speaks no English, so I have to function totally in Spanish with her. By now, that’s not too difficult although much of the last few weeks I haven’t been speaking it. Damn Europeans. So many of them speak very fluent English. Luckily, I can street park the car but I have to pay $5 to the beginning of the holiday free period at 6 PM. I think that’s the first parking fee I’ve paid this trip.

Gijón is a bear for me to pronounce. In Spanish, the G and the J both have an H sound, but the G involves more phlegm and spittle, as in the German “ich”. I really have to work at it to make the two variant sounds in quick succession.

After she feeds me a simple but tasty lunch, I accompany Inés on an errand. She has to pick up some boxes of heavy ceramic tile from a warehouse. She takes along a rolling suitcase in lieu of a wheelbarrow. At the tile place, we load the material carefully into the suitcase and take a roundabout way home to avoid any stairways. The suitcase is ok to roll cautiously but impossibly heavy to lift. Even preventing a runaway while descending a ramp is a challenge. After that she takes me on a long, walking tour of the town.

Along the water near her house is what looks like a giant glass Christmas tree composed of green bottles. Inés explains that it’s a monument to “sidra”. Asturias is famous for producing prodigious amounts of hard apple cider. There’s a big festival for it in August. The shtick here is that the cider is poured into glasses at great height without spilling it, bottle and glass held as far apart as possible.

American Halloween has permeated Europe so there are many decorated balconies as well as costumed children seeking sweets from the stores. It’s impossible to go from home to home knocking on doors in Europe because apartment buildings have access security and detached houses have walled yards.

Part of our walk involves checking on the renovation progress of an apartment owned by a relative. Apparently, the tile we got is eventually destined for here. Inés seems very knowledgeable about renovation and engages the worker at length. I understand virtually nothing of their technical conversation.

Wednesday morning, I’m planning on sourdough pancakes. Inés has invited two friends to join us for breakfast, an Irish expatriate and his Spanish wife. We sit down at 9 AM but the two visitors have eaten breakfast earlier and Inés takes about one eighth of a pancake and then eats her normal cold cut and bread meal. I end up having to pull most of the load, a task for which I’m well suited but cooking for people is much more rewarding when they’re big eaters. In 2016, in Labrador we made tacos for a family we were staying with. They were the best because every time I said, “More?” the unanimous answer was an enthusiastic “Yes!” We did the same when they fed us an elaborate Saturday dinner that included bear meat.

After breakfast, we’re all going to take a walk but apparently I haven’t been paying attention. The four of us leave the apartment, me in sneakers without socks, no phone, no water, and no sun protection. By the time I come to my senses we’re on a 10 mile walk along the entire Gijón shoreline and back. Fortunately the sun isn’t fierce and there’s a coffee shop at the farthest point, but that distance without socks is likely to be hard on my feet.

As we stroll along the shore, we pass a number of statues and memorials. The most interesting is dedicated to the mothers who remained behind as many Asturian emigrants left to make a better life in Mexico, Cuba, and Puerto Rico. It’s a rather poignant representation.

Our outbound destination is the Mirador de la Providencia, a tower looking out to sea, built in the shape of a ship’s prow.

Nearby, we sit at a cafe for coffee and a pastry and then start the 5 mile return walk. By the time we get home, I’ve trodden carefully all day and just have one moderately abraded toe and no photographs.

The rest of the day is quiet as Inés takes a post-exercise nap and later makes another delicious, simple dinner. As is often the case, I’ve changed my plans at the last minute. I had planned on continuing west toward the northwest corner of the Iberian peninsula but Atlas Obscura highlighted a cavern to the south and since I’m a sucker for caves, I bought a $20 online ticket for 9:20 AM. The tour is limited to 10 people and only offered three times a week, so I’m lucky to have snagged a spot at the last minute. I’m up early Thursday, drag my bag to the car, and drive off in the dark at 6:30 AM.

As I pass the seawall, waves are furiously crashing into it with spray splashing onto the promenade. Just yesterday, at low tide, there was a broad, sandy beach with many people. I’m surprised at the change.

Leaving Gijón, I make the 90 minute drive to the south to my cave appointment.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/16/road-trip-europe-ii-23-11-02-23-11-03-i-go-underground/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/10/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-27-23-10-29-picos-de-europa-national-park/

I have an invitation from a Servas host in the coastal town of Gijón beginning today, Sunday, but when I contacted her last night to confirm, she said she wouldn’t be home until Tuesday, so it’s a good time for a writing and working day. Using my well honed booking.com lodging picking techniques, I’ve located a likely place in Gijón – very cheap, highly rated, breakfasts included – so I’ve reserved two nights there.

Periodically, I scan through Atlas Obscura, a list of usually quirky places all over the world. I often find destinations worth a visit there and I’ve got two possibilities lined up for today. Because they’re not on my direct route to the hostel, I’m forced to retrace about 45 miles of yesterday’s northward drive to reach La Cuevona. This is a road through a natural cavern that is the only vehicle access to the town named, appropriately, Cuevas (Caves).

Along the way, in Cangas de Onis, I take a break to admire a surviving Roman arched bridge.

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Leaving the highway, I wind and twist up and down a narrow road. Shortly after it ducks under the east-west coastal expressway I see what looks at first glance like a typical tunnel entrance. In this case, though, it’s a natural tunnel. The road winds over 800 feet through a large cavern carved over thousands of years by the adjacent stream. I’ve never seen anything like this. Definitely cool.

After gawking and walking a while, I turn west to my next destination, The Jurassic Museum of Asturia. Scenically situated on a 500 foot hill with an expansive view of the Bay of Biscay coast, its outdoor area is full of life size dinosaur statues. I’ve arrived late in the day so I decide it’s not worth paying admission to the museum building, especially since I already know quite a bit about dinosaurs.

Continuing west, I wind through residential streets to the Gijón Surf Hostel (GSH). As I hoped, it turns out to be a great place. It’s a large building, obviously purpose built to serve as a hostel. The staff is Workaway volunteers from a variety of countries, so the lingua franca is English rather than Spanish, which suits the mostly young, international guests. The place has many of the best hostel features – good internet, two well equipped guest kitchens, a front patio with picnic tables, a lawn with hammocks, a comfortable common area with couches, and a giant table with desk chairs, perfect for working. There’s also a big, free parking lot around the corner where many RVs are parked (the owners would say they’re camped).

I check in, pay my measly $32 for two nights, stake out a bunk bed, refrigerate my perishables, and get online. GSH caters to surfers (water, not web) as well as other travelers. A whiteboard lays out the schedule for surfing lessons and gear rental charges. The basement garage has been converted to a surf shop. The beach is a few blocks away and there’s a constant trickle of guests and staff coming and going there. As evening approaches, being too lazy to go shopping and knowing that breakfast is coming in the morning, I cook an inadequate dinner of two small pancakes from a bit of leftover batter I’m carrying,. My conversations are limited to a few hellos and brief introductions. At 12:30 AM, the staff locks up the common lounge for the night, so I close up the laptop and head downstairs to bed.

Breakfast is at 8:30 AM and I’m very hungry, so I’m at the kitchen door a few minutes before, milling with other eager guests and staff. It’s a good breakfast, self service, all you can eat, but no hot dishes. It’s way better than I have a right to expect for the piddling overnight price. I load up and eat at one of the picnic tables in the mild morning sun. This is where the conversations start. Gijón is on the Camino de Santiago, originally a pilgrimage route for Catholics. Rather than my conception of a single trail, it’s actually a network of them, radiating inward (if that’s possible) from assorted origins in France, Spain, and Portugal to Santiago de Compostela, a locale that has some important religious significance. Some of the routes are easy, some mountainous, all have food and lodging options along the way, so there’s something for everyone.

In modern times, many of the walkers are still devout Catholics, but there are people out for the hiking experience, couples sharing some joint adventure, and many people who are walking solo while they sort out the next step in their lives.

Gijón is along the so-called Camino del Norte, one of the easier routes that stays along the coast and avoids most of the heavy climbing. Interestingly, the shortest and easiest option is named the Camino Inglés. I guess it’s targeted at candy-ass American and British walkers. My driving routes have intersected the Camino many times since I left Girona. The route is well-marked and there are walkers everywhere along it.

One flaw is that in many stretches, the Camino is on roads, although often separated from the traffic lanes by several feet. I suppose if you’re walking to find god, penitently flaying your back with willow branches (this is just my imagination), the route environment is irrelevant. As a hiking experience, though, road walking leaves a lot to be desired.

I have two long conversations with walkers. Lena, a young German woman in her late thirties had been a dancer for 20 years and found the professional opportunities becoming intermittent and the toll on her body significant. She dumped a long-standing but unsatisfactory boyfriend and is walking solo to contemplate her future. She’s learning guitar, and writes poetry in a couple of languages. She came off the trail with a miserable blister and has catered to it for two days. Even more or less healed, it’s the ugliest walking wound I’ve ever seen, but she can’t afford to tarry longer. During her stay, she spends hours in the lounge strumming and singing. She’s not at all a typical German.

Roger, a German-Swiss, is a devout believer in the validity of the stories in the bible. His religious intensity doesn’t prevent him from being social and friendly with atheists such as myself and we speak at length of our different approaches to the scientific evidence of earth’s longevity and the indications or lack thereof of godly existence. He and his wife are walking separate Camino routes to enhance the religious import and rendezvous every several days before resuming their solo journeys.

By contrast, the non-walkers are out for fun. One trio of Workaway women had planned to take surfing lessons today but blow them off in favor of a shopping expedition in town. Hannah, a young, long term traveler originally from British Columbia, spends at least an hour talking to another volunteer about her various options for getting her first tattoo, or two or three. This is a bit disconcerting to me as a parent as she has the physical appearance of a high school freshman although actually she has finished university. It took me years and long periods in Argentina where virtually every female has prominent tattoos to at least partially change my view of ink from bodily mutilation to a true expression of art. Another vivacious volunteer from rural Germany is making plans to move to Berlin, hit the techno clubs, and put more excitement in her life. The surfers talk about little but surf conditions. I mainly see them peeling in and out of wet suits.

In the afternoon, I get into a conversation with 3 guests, Tom (German carpenter), Hannah (German wanderer), and André (Belgian wanderer). They’re volunteering at the second home (finca) of the hostel’s owner, so as a fringe benefit they can stay here free on the weekends. They’re due back at the finca this afternoon but it’s a long bus ride and then a long walk to the rural site. Since I’m on vacation, I offer to drive them home and they gratefully accept.

About 3 PM, we take off heading back eastward, the direction I came from. During the ride, I tell them about La Cuevona. They weren’t aware of it and it turns out to be quite close to where they’re staying so they resolve to bike over there at some point. Tourist advice, just another service I provide.

It’s about an hour’s ride to the finca so, as a token of appreciation, they offer to show me the local sights before I drop them off. We ride small roads to a very attractive little waterfall and swimming hole and then proceed to an impressive rocky outcropping with panoramic views and constant, fierce wind.

By the time we get to their home, there isn’t much light left, so after a brief tour of phase I of the premises in their current state, I leave for Gijón.

To avoid backtracking, I pick a more circuitous route on Maps. I figure there’s just enough light left to drive it and get back to the expressway by full darkness.

You won’t be surprised to hear it doesn’t work out as planned. The route I’ve picked is a steep lane which then turns into a dirt logging road. I plug onward but finally there are so many branches across the narrow way that I’m starting to lose traction. Finally, I can’t proceed upward any further. I could back down a little and get a running start over that spot, but I have no idea whether I’ll encounter some more obstinate barrier further up the hill. This road clearly hasn’t been used in a long while. Discretion being the better part of valor, I decide to abandon the project. This is easier decided than accomplished.

The road is literally only a few inches wider than my wheel track, with a steep uphill embankment and a precipitous downhill drop with uncertain, crumbly edges. There is absolutely zero chance of a U-turn. My only choice is to reverse down the road until I find a spot wide enough for a 10-leg K turn, and I know that spot is a long way below. So now I’m backing down an impossibly narrow road, in the gathering dark, with extraordinary care because a 6 inch mistake could put one of my wheels over open air, or maybe the entire vehicle far below in the valley. I’m managing this, keeping the wheels in the appropriate spots. The road is generally straight but undulates gently so I can’t just back straight down. Every few meters I have to adjust the direction slightly. This is painstaking work with almost no tolerance for error. Many times I see I’m on the wrong track and have to pull uphill a bit to correct the car’s alignment. My backward progress is more suitable for measurement in furlongs per fortnight than miles per hour.

It’s now very close to totally dark so I have only my backup lights, and perhaps ESP, to keep the car on the road. At one point I’m ready just to put the brakes on and sleep until daylight, but that would mean missing my prepaid breakfast [joke!] so I plug on. I remember, i.e. I think I remember, seeing a wide spot not too much further down. It takes me about 90 minutes to back down about 1300 feet – an average speed of under 15 feet per minute – infants crawl faster — with total concentration the entire time. It’s with considerable relief I reach the wide spot, “wide” only by comparison, and take about 5 minutes to safely manage the U-turn. Once pointed downhill the remainder is a piece of cake. I mean I now have headlights to show me the eroded dropoff side of the road.

Of course, there are no photos of my predicament because when these things are in progress, I’m not thinking about recording them until the problem is solved. Too late, then.

I stop at a supermarket for groceries, get back to the hostel quite late, make myself a good dinner in the deserted kitchen, and get some well earned sleep.

Tuesday morning, Halloween, I pack up my stuff, gorge on breakfast, say goodbye to a few new acquaintances, and head across town to meet my host, Inés, at about noon.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/14/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-31-23-11-02-a-different-milieu-in-gijon-asturias/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/08/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-26-23-10-27-a-rustic-night-in-soba-remote-cattle-country/

When I arrive at Casa Crescente on Friday afternoon in the little village of Boca de Huérgano, I find a small bar and very nice rooms upstairs, again for very little money. There’s no refrigerator but it’s cool enough for me to store my perishables on the window ledge. I ask the bartender about dinner and out of his rapid fire answer, I catch “homemade” and “8:30”. I occupy myself in the room for a few hours and at the designated time I go downstairs. The bar is full of locals engaged in loud conversation and drinking beers.

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My Spanish comprehension isn’t nearly good enough to insert myself into any of these groups, so I step up to the bar and say, “Comida?” (food). The bartender hands me a beer and a square of some very tasty baked good. The food turns out be not a meal but one of these homemade tidbits from a tray. Disappointed in the quantity although not the taste, I down my $1.60 dinner and head back upstairs. I know they serve breakfast and lunch so I have no choice but to make the snack do until morning.

I’m going to spend Saturday circumnavigating and probing the park, so I dress for the cold and wet. Breakfast is very good and extremely reasonably priced and I’m soon off. As I head out in a clockwise direction, my first point of interest is the Riaño Reservoir, a miles-long, triskelion-shaped basin whose water level is so low that much of the pre-impoundment road and bridge system is exposed.

As I turn north, the low ceiling hides the upper slopes of the Picos except for brief glimpses. Close up, I can see that my declaration yesterday of “termination dust”, while technically correct, was mostly an illusion. The very highest peaks do, indeed, have some snow at the top but the mountains are composed of white limestone which, seen yesterday from 10 miles away through rainy skies, I mistook for large areas of snow.

I turn off the circumferential road into one of the two park accesses. This road winds almost 14 miles into the central mountains, getting successively twistier, narrower, and steeper until it ends at the hiking base town of Caín along the Cares River. From here, a beautiful trail is said to wind deeper into the mountains. Sadly, between the inclement weather and lack of a hiking companion, I don’t even seriously consider the route. The drive in, though, is spectacular through enormous limestone mountains. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so much rock landscape. It’s almost unbelievable that the Pyrenees and Cantabrian mountains were all sea bottom.

The limestone has created a karst topography, with many cliffs, pinnacles, and caves throughout the two ranges. Limestone, made of geologically compressed shells and other calcium remains, dissolves relatively easily, especially if the water is slightly acidic. This solvent property is the reason increasing CO₂ levels are threatening the survival of marine invertebrates like corals, molluscs, and crustaceans. Significant acidity prevents the chemical reactions that build their calcium based exoskeletons. Limestone erosion often happens in a geologic eye blink. Today, the rock still dominates with trees confined to the areas where they can survive. Rather than futilely attempt to describe the landscape further, here are some photos taken along the route:

Along the way, I pass a stone structure used as far back as the 17th century as a wolf trap. Taking advantage of wolf pack behavior, villagers with spears were stationed in a pattern across the narrow valley that forced a pack of wolves into a spiral pattern that ended in the stone enclosure, where they could be slaughtered for meat.

After reaching the last driveable few feet of road in Caín, I work my way back to the highway, turn north and start looking for a meal. I really wanted the lunch back at Casa Crescente, but since it’s only served from 1:30 to 3:30 I was quite sure I would miss it. Since every restaurant serves a daily lunch, though, I know it’s not a problem. As I enter the village of Oseja de Sajambre, the streets are full of cars and people. I drive past the village and find the first unused curb parking spot, then walk back about 1500 feet. I’ve happened here on feria day, and people have come from miles around to sell and buy everything you can imagine.

Livestock is a major portion and there are horses, sheep, cows, goats, and pigs in various pens and corrals, all being watched over by children with long rods used to herd the animals and all being gawked at by prospective buyers.

Food and clothing is also being sold so its a very festive, busy day and many people have been clearly looking forward to it.

Since I’m there at peak lunch hour and every eating establishment is mobbed, l wonder how hard it will be to get a table.

I squeeze through the bar crowd at one place and realize that most of the clientele are drinking beer and eating snacks. The dining room is not overly crowded. My two lunch courses are beans and cod and a plate of very tender goat with the obligatory, for me, flan dessert. The food is very good and I’m sharing a table and conversation with a young Spanish man who’s on a one day excursion here from his coastal home to enjoy the market. The lunch back at my hotel was posted at only $12 and I assume, mistakenly as it turns out, the price at other restaurants will be in line with that. When I get the check, though, the price is $21, a big and unexpected difference but not a tragedy.

Continuing my drive around the national park, frequently still through dramatic and impressive canyons,

I enter the other spur to its interior. This one follows the same Cares River upstream to the north end of the hiking route from Caín. The shorter road isn’t as impressive as the earlier one but its extreme end is a village named Camarmeña, impossibly perched on a slope high above the valley accessed by a steep, winding road dicier than almost anything I’ve seen to date. I have to use first gear all the way up, and most of the way back down.

Although the light is fading, I try an alternate route out of the park displayed by Google Maps — anything to avoid a backtrack. Using tiny roads is always chancy because many of them are closed to unauthorized traffic. In this case, I read on an earlier sign that there are no public routes through the park. But, what the hell, Maps says it works. I drive up and up and up a paved road to the high country for 10 miles and at the turnoff I need, sure enough, the “Authorized Vehicles Only” sign is prominently displayed. The chances of getting in trouble for driving it are tiny, but if I were to break down along the way that trouble might be unavoidable. Plus, I have no idea that the road is passable all the way across to the main highway. One locked gate and I’m done.

Reluctantly, I turn around and twist my way back to the river. By the time I reach it, last light is fading and the rest of my long drive is in the dark. On the main, national highway which has long stretches of one and a half lane pavement, I’m behind a large bus which must painstakingly slow up to allow the frequent oncoming traffic to get by. In addition there are 3 construction sites, deserted at night of course, with long, traffic light controlled, one way sections. At each light, the wait is 5-10 minutes for the green.

Finally, miles later the bus turns off and the road becomes more standard. It’s 9:30 PM by the time I return to my comfortable room, much too late even for the evening snack.

I leave Casa Crescente early morning heading back to the coast. I was looking forward to breakfast before I hit the road but the door to the bar is locked and a small sign says “Closed for Sunday rest day” so instead I go to a tiny nearby bakery and get something that looks like a tasty pastry. Unfortunately, it turns out to be filled with tuna fish — not at all what I had in mind. But as they say, it beats a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

With pastry crumbs falling into my lap, I head up the highway to my next destination, the beach, port, and industrial town of Gijón.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/13/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-29-23-10-31-surf-city-here-i-come-but-not-surf-city-usa/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/05/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-24-23-10-26-bilbao-the-ancient-basque-seaport/

Thursday, I drive out of Bilbao, leaving the coast for several days in favor of the mountains. The drive is short, less than 60 miles, and I’m heading to an interesting looking hostel far off the beaten track in southeast Cantabria. The Cantabrian Mountains are a westward extension of the Pyrenees. Whereas, the former form the border of Spain and France, the latter run parallel to and inland of the Bay of Biscay.

This place caught my eye as I plan my route westward. It’s remote, cheap, and highly rated – very promising. The drive from Bilboa is typical, lots of small agriculture amid patches of forest. The road follows river valleys and goes over low divides. The weather is still overcast with intermittent raining. At one point, I see a line of windmills disappearing into an advancing, low cloud.

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As I cross into Cantabria, an abandoned building with a collapsed roof and overgrown interior catches my eye.

Shortly after, the view opens up into tall hills and broad valleys.

With 10 miles to go to my destination, I turn onto a much smaller, rural lane. This route winds through farming country, often switchbacking up or down a particularly steep hill.

While the roads are paved, many spots are rough and poorly maintained and the narrowness makes it undesirable to meet oncoming traffic. Fortunately, there is very little of that but, in these situations, one never knows when a local bus or giant farm machine will appear around a blind corner.

At one point, I’m behind a cement truck careening around the curves and I’m thankful I’m not encountering it as opposing traffic.

Eventually, after navigating an impossibly steep and narrow driveway, I get to the building. The door is locked, despite the sign announcing check-in hours and the area appears deserted. I text the posted number to announce my arrival with no immediate response. As I patiently pass the time investigating my surroundings, a response arrives after 10 minutes, “We’re on the way. The side door is unlocked. Make yourself at home.” I park the car on the very steep end of the driveway, so steep I chock the wheel as an extra precaution against a runaway.

The inside is very nice, both the structure and the furniture all made of dark, heavy wood.

I put away my perishables in the refrigerator and soon after, the owner, Cris, arrives.

She gives me the tour, asks when I would like breakfast, and leaves me on my own. There’s no internet here as this spot isn’t served by the nearby village’s fiber service. I find adequate cell service outside the building but it can’t penetrate the heavy stone walls.

There’s a wood stove and several large chunks of wood but no kindling or hatchet so I carefully build a fire with the logs I have and some rolled up paper. It burns well, so I get to enjoy it camping style.

As I’m the only guest tonight, I have the dorm room to myself, so I choose the loft. The head clearance is too little to let me sit up without risking a concussion, so I have to roll in and out of bed from and to the top of the sturdy homemade ladder.

The morning dawns not raining for a change. Cris arrives from her home and prepares breakfast just for me, an extremely nice gesture for a solitary $18 guest. Her English is minimal but we get on fine in Spanish. She tells me she, her husband, and a friend built this large building themselves over 4 years. It’s quite busy in the summer with hikers and bicyclists who appreciate the scenic remoteness but I’m one of few autumn visitors. In the winter, she gets skiers. After breakfast and conversation she heads back down to her home, telling me to leave whenever I feel like it. If it weren’t for the lack of internet, I’d stay here 2 or 3 nights and test my tolerance for solitude.

The local road out to the west is much less of an adventure than yesterday’s long approach from the east.

There’s a large waterfall nearby, so I swing by there on my way our of the area. Google Maps tells me it’s not far up a restricted road, so I park and walk up past some cattle pastures. An informational sign maps the cirques and moraines visible in the wide open glacial scenery. Of course the ice is long gone.

The walk is very nice but after a mile or so it’s obvious the waterfall, which photos show issuing from a cave and making a long drop to the valley floor can’t be up this road. Maps is wrong. I’m pretty sure now the fall is below me rather than above. I work my way slowly back to the car and continue down into the canyon. Sure enough, a short way down the switchbacked highway, there it is across the steep gorge, spewing from mid-cliff and dropping a respectable distance to the canyon floor. I had been walking above it with no way to notice it from there.

Mystery solved, I continue on my way. As is so often the case in Spain, cows share the road with cars, and they have the right of way.

My route takes me to the northern edge of the mountains where I get an expansive view of the Bay of Biscay, although I’m not actually going to the coast today.

Tonight’s destination is Picos de Europa National Park and I’m heading for a small and cheap hotel/bar in a small village south of the park. It’s about 150 miles of mostly twists and turns. As I make a turn northward on the final leg, I’m surprised to see that the distant mountain slopes are covered with termination dust, the Alaskan term for the first light, high altitude snow of winter. I’m definitely heading into colder weather, at least for a while.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/10/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-27-23-10-29-picos-de-europa-national-park/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/10/31/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-22-23-10-24-basque-ing-at-the-beach/

Tuesday, I depart Bakio before noon for the short drive to Bilbao. While driving, I realize that at least three Basque place names have made into popular culture. Bilbao Moon is a song in two of Bertold Brecht’s 1928 plays. Guernica is the title of a famous Picasso painting and Gattaca a 1997 science fiction film. Arriving in the port city, I park the car along the ship channel in the closest free space I can find and take a leisurely walk upstream.

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• 

• 

My first stop is the Itsasmuseum (Maritime Museum) perched, appropriately, along the city’s main shipping channel. In addition to a yard full of various vessels of significance to Basques, the interior does an excellent job of explaining the history of Basque seafaring. For example, Magellan’s 1519 circumnavigation of the earth departed Europe with 245 sailors. Three years later, only 18 survivors returned. Three of them were Basques.

For almost 600 years ships had to navigate the shifting sands of the Portugalete bar in order to reach the protected harbor. This was so hazardous, the bar was called “the school for shipwrecks”. In 1877, an iron pier was built which altered the river flow so as to keep a channel naturally clear. From that point Bilbao as a shipping center grew and modernized continuously. Some of the museum’s exhibits of current facilities are corporate sponsored and feel like advertising but the older issues are well explained. I spend hours there.

Next, I continue walking upstream toward the Frank Gehry designed Guggenheim Museum.

I love Gehry buildings — MIT commissioned one long after I graduated — but I settle for the exterior because I have no need to spend hours inside ogling modern art.

After that, a detour to Aldi supermarket for a tray of sushi and a liter of room temperature orange juice, both of which I consume on a park bench outside. Then, a long walk through the city, including an almost endless, steep climb up a large hill, to check out the All Iron Hostel that might be perfect. Along one busy street, I unexpectedly come across a statue of John Adams. The plaque explains that he referenced Bilbao and Basque country in his 1787 defense of constitutional government.

The hostel is perfect but I’m waiting for a host to respond so I hold off booking at the risk of there being no bed and/or parking spot later in the day. It’s beautifully located on a height with nearby views across the city.

• 

• 

Next, at Eric’s suggestion, I’m going to try a “free walking tour”. You pay what you want to at the end of the tour, but fair compensation is going to be a significant amount of money. I’ve never done one of these so it’ll be an interesting experiment. I know if I’m giving a tour to someone, any question I get asked will get an answer, true or not. It’s entertainment that counts. Getting to the meeting point includes a walk down a seemingly endless series of city stairs which is how I lose the altitude I gained earlier.

• 

• 

The tour lasts 2 hours and I’m pretty satisfied. There’s a bit too much boosterism but its likely just the Bilbao-born/raised guide’s enthusiasm for his city. One thing I don’t like is that he’s determined not to mention politics to avoid any risk of offending any clients. This means the description of certain events is misleading because they make no sense without the governmental context. For example, he mentioned the steady growth of the Basque language in Bilbao but couldn’t tell the whole story. Prior to 1975, during Franco’s repressive reign, speaking or teaching Euskera, or any other non-Castilian language used in Spain, was a criminal offense – and dictators don’t adhere to due process. So the growth is all since Franco’s death. If I hadn’t already had some Basque history from my prior hosts, not to mention my own reading, I would have been dumb and happy. In any case, I paid the guide well.

Finally, the long walk back to the car. On a busy street along the way, I encounter a bunch of Hare Krishnas doing a well-rehearsed dance.

I haven’t heard from the prospective host, so I check my chosen hostel again – they are, in fact, now sold out. Not a problem since there are plenty of choices. I pick out one and stop at a Lidl supermarket (like Aldi, a German chain) to pick up some ingredients for dinner. I have to shop quickly because I’m forced to double park the Berlingo on a busy street.

The Bilbao Hostel isn’t what I expect. It’s a modern, high rise building on spacious grounds. It’s plentiful parking includes spaces for motor homes. It also has 24-hour reception, a rarity that allows guests to arrive anytime of the day or night. Once I see it, I book for two nights so I have a full day to work and write. At $25/night it’s a little above my usual hostel price, but well worth it. I’m in a 6-bed room on the sixth floor and downstairs are several comfortable common areas for relaxing. The only downside is that the property is perched on an embankment just 60 feet above a perpetually busy 8-lane highway. Inside, this is no problem – you hear almost nothing.

Step outside or open the window and the din is ceaseless. Some reviews complained that the lack of air conditioning made hot weather sleeping impossible, with or without opening the window. In late October, temperature is no problem.

Late at night, I head to my room, which has two other occupants on this off-season night. Because of my horrendous snoring and sleep apnea, I’m meticulous about using my CPAP machine in a shared accommodation. If I didn’t, not only would I keep everyone else awake but I might be smothered by them during the night. It would be very disturbing to wake up dead. The problem with going to bed late at night in a dorm room is that you have to get set without waking everyone else up. In this hostel, linen is supplied (that’s often not true) but you have to make your own bed. Earlier, I saw this coming and made it up ahead of time.

I go down to the kitchen to make dinner and become very unhappy. For 170 beds, the guest kitchen includes one (!) induction stove burner and no cooking utensils. I find out I can get a modest pot, small frying pan, and one place setting for a $32 deposit, but that’s really not adequate gear for making a meal. It’s a great way for management to ensure that no one steals anything, but it’s a shit attitude in an otherwise very satisfactory operation. I settle for pasta, cooking the noodles in the pot on the single burner and pseudo-sauteing my vegetables in the microwave in an errant plastic bowl I find in an otherwise empty cupboard, before adding canned sauce and mixing the whole glop together. It’s dinner, but not at all what I have in mind. It becomes obvious, fortunately, that out of the whole building only two of us are using the kitchen. Even 5 or 6 people would have been major congestion.

I’m up early for breakfast, which is served in the unusually narrow window of only 8-9 AM. Its all you can eat with a substantial variety of choices, lacking only fresh fruit.

• 

• 

I load up, knowing that repeats of my pasta meal are all I can prepare. I end up eating that two more times today. Sitting in an easy chair with computer in my lap and a panoramic view through the giant windows is a nice relaxing way to pass the time – and I usually don’t make it a point to relax. The place is so large, it’s hard to socialize. Almost everyone there is in a self-contained group. I do end up talking to a Spanish monk who’s in town for some sort of 5-day spiritual retreat. He tells me he normally lives a solitary existence in a primitive mountain abode – standard monk stuff, I suppose. He also planned to use the kitchen to prepare his meals but I guess he’s now going to survive on breakfast alone. He makes praying motions over his food before eating and I think to myself it’s tasty enough not to need a religious miracle prior to consumption.

The second night and morning are much the same and Thursday morning, since it’s still raining steadily, I vacate my room by noon and continue working until I hit the road after 2 PM. I’m only driving about 70 miles today and there’s no need to get there much before dark. On the way out, I go to Portugalete, the harbor entrance mentioned earlier, to see what the modern version looks like. It’s just a ship channel mow but as I look up-harbor, I see something I know nothing about. There’s a tall, high structure spanning the channel that even large ships can easily clear. Below it, near water level, is a sort of ferry carrying loads across the river. Instead of being in the water, it glides a little above it suspended from a carrier by long cables.

Some quick research reveals this is the Vizcaya Transporter Bridge. The hanging gondola that transports cars and people is the transporter. This was an innovative bridge using innovative technology, the first of its kind, built in 1893, to make transport feasible across a heavy shipping channel without needing extensive ramps to get traffic up high. With various modernizations, it has operated almost continuously, interrupted only during the 4 years of the Spanish Civil War when the transporter was dynamited to the bottom of the channel. Interestingly, the original designer, Alberto Placio, a protege of Gustav Eiffel, witnessed the 1937 partial destruction of his masterpiece from his home downstream. The bridge was built privately but is now owned by Spain. At least 19 other transporter bridges were built around the world due to the success of the Vizcaya Bridge but only 8 still survive.

Of course, I’m determined to cross the channel on this bridge. I quickly determine that it transports vehicles rather than just pedestrians so I try to drive to the approach. The narrow streets around the bridge are so confusing that every time I try to approach with the Berlingo, people start honking at me furiously for cutting the line. After 30 minutes of driving around, I park behind the waiting cars to ask where to go. Within minutes, a deaf man catches up to me on foot, takes my arm, and points to the end of the line. He’s the most recent person I’m jumping ahead of. With this info, I manage to insert myself at the proper end of the line and wait my turn. Finally, my car is loaded and we glide across the water just a few feet above it. It’s only much later I find out that there are elevators in the towers that allow pedestrians to walk across the top structure as well. Missed out on that.

Having accomplished the crossing, I head out of town toward my very rural, very remote overnight stop.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/08/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-26-23-10-27-a-rustic-night-in-soba-remote-cattle-country/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/10/30/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-16-23-10-20-first-time-in-basque-country/

Leaving Irún on a quiet Sunday morning, I trundle my way along the Atlantic coast, avoiding the big, direct roads. I’m only going about 100 miles and it doesn’t take long to reach Gipuzkoa, a stereotypical beach town seen everywhere that wants to attract Western tourists – high rise vacation apartments shoulder to shoulder above the shoreline. The north coast of Spain is very rocky and there aren’t that many sandy beaches, so each one attracts a lot of construction. The town is set in a curved cove and has a nice surf.

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Many twisty roads, high above the ocean, lead me to Bakio, another typical beach town but this one is where my next hosts live. Cian (his parents named him for the color cyan) invited me earlier but when I told him just yesterday that I could arrive today, he informed me that he currently had Airbnb guests in his apartment but that his friend and neighbor Manu (for Manuel) would host me.

On arrival, I see that they live in an older, high rise building set high above the beach with a magnificent view of the ocean, Bakio, and the surrounding topography.

Cian doesn’t answer my knock and when I text him, he informs me he and Manu are (is there any other option in Spain?) socializing in a beachfront bar. He invites me to join them, so I walk back down the mountain and we soon connect over a beer. Traveling in Europe, I probably drink 10 times as much alcohol as I do at home. For me that’s still not very much, though. I deflect many more invitations than I accept.

After some introductory chat, the three of us walk over to the adjacent beach. At the far end, Manu and Cian intend to go swimming in the surf. I don’t have shorts on me, so I decide to go in my underwear – a severe risk of coming out naked. Cian, perhaps wanting to avoid that unpleasant sight, gives me his shorts. The surf is strong – Bakio is popular with surfers – so I’m somewhat cautious, not going out more than neck deep. The water is warm by my standards so I romp in the rough waves for quite a while.

Later, we walk back across the wide beach and up the steep hill to the apartment building. I settle in to Manu’s guest room and we spend some hours talking, eating, and drinking. Cian was born in Catalunya but has lived in Basque country for years. Manu is pure Basque but for many years has lived in Belgium with his Belgian wife. He teaches philosophy there in a Catholic school. On the beach earlier, he explained that he loves to teach his students about astrology. I’m floored, not just because he puts such faith in it but that he can get away with including it in a philosophy class. He spends his summers and his 50% time off during the school year (Europe, gotta love it) in his hometown. He bought the condo a year ago so he now has a permanent base. Although there is a 15-year age difference between Manu and Cian, they are close friends and live just doors apart on the same floor.

While gathering my things to leave the beach earlier, my phone fell out of my pocket onto the sand. It seemed as though it was a harmless drop, but now I discover I can’t successfully plug in the charging cable. Careful examination with my magnifying glass reveals several grains of sand have gotten in the USB port, blocking the cable plug from seating properly. The grains are sticky and no amount of gentle banging will dislodge them with gravity. I try puffing air repeatedly into the port, to no avail. In desperation I try to squirt some water in there (the phone is waterproof) but the opening is to small to inject it in with any force. Finally, I spend about 30 minutes with a toothpick and safety pin painstakingly pulling out each grain from the minuscule opening while carefully avoiding damaging the delicate gold contacts. I finally get it but the cable grip in the port is no longer very secure and too much vibration now causes it to fall out.

As I’m showing off the features of my new camera, Cian spots a heron perched in a tree far below. Using my 3000 mm zoom setting and steadying the camera against the wall, I get very good photos of the distant bird. This camera is going to be a worthwhile accoutrement despite my having to lug around its 4 pounds on my shoulder. On my prior Europe trip earlier in the year, I had only my phone camera. Despite being technically very capable, the 2x zoom limitation meant many photos had to be post-cropped to enlarge and emphasize the area of interest. There’s much less of that with 125x zoom.

• 

• 

The view from the balcony is expansive and the light is ever changing as the sun gets lower.

At this time of year, it isn’t oppressive because it never gets very high in the sky. Bakio, with it’s mild winter climate, is at about the same latitude as Lake Ontario. It’s the off season and the town is very quiet, having shrunk to its permanent population of about 2,000. During the summer it swells to many times that. It’s always been oriented toward the beach — tourism now, traditional Basque fishing in the old days. It has no town center as is customary in Europe. Because he’s only there intermittently, Manu has no home internet so I have to rely on cell service throughout the evening. More and more people I meet these days have internet solely on their phones. This sometimes makes it difficult for me as I rely on my laptop for a lot of things, including remote work. Outside the US my plan doesn’t let me tether the computer to my phone to get fast data.

As the afternoon shades into darkness, we continue to sit on the balcony talking about a variety of topics.

By morning, it’s raining steadily so hanging around outdoors isn’t very appealing. Manu goes surfing in the morning – he loves it and tries not to miss a day . — and is then off on some errand. Cian’s French guests are out for the day, so he invites me to use his internet. He takes a long midday nap while I work on my computer. As evening comes on, it’s still raining and Manu returns. The three of us go out searching for a restaurant or bar that is open. Cian is wearing bicycle shoes that have some sort of metal on the soles. On the steep, wet pavement down to the town, he keeps losing traction. Eventually Manu and I have to comically hold on to him until the surface levels out.

We make a long pedestrian circuit through Bakio. Between the rain, the off season, and it being Monday, everything is closed except for two adjacent bars. We go to the Bar Kai and socialize. Throughout my visit, Cian is constantly stepping away from us to respond to a call or text. I tell him I’ve seen drug dealers who spend less time on the phone. In fact, his mother is fighting cancer and he’s trying to make a living from his Airbnb proceeds. His dream is to get a rural place and live self sufficiently and by barter. An ambitious goal for sure.

I try a Gilda, named after the 1946 movie, a skewered, repeating sequence of green olive, anchovy, and green pepper. This is a famous example of Basque pintxos (their word for toothpicks), house-made canapes served in every bar. I don’t normally like green olives, but the Gilda combination is delicious – just the right combination of flavors. And, I manage not to eat the toothpick or poke my cheek with it.

As we’re talking, another man comes up to our table and then sits down with us. Turns out he’s an acquaintance of Manu but they haven’t seen each other for 15 years. His name is Aitor Maguregi and he’s pure Basque all the way back. His last name means, strangely to me, “strawberry field”. He, Manu, and Cian talk for an hour or two. I can’t follow much of it due to the rapid fire Spanish and high ambient noise level except when Aitor turns to me and explains or emphasizes some point with his very limited English. Every so often, I chime in with something in Spanish that I desperately hope is relevant to the conversation at that point. What amazes me is Aitor’s face. He is just what I imagine the rugged, Basque fishermen of the 1500s must have looked like. I never find out what he does for a living but I know it’s not fishing. I feel like I’ve seen a bit of history, but it could all be imagination. Judge for yourself.

After Aitor ambles off into the rain, it’s not long before the bar closes for the night. As we’re leaving, as a simple courtesy I say “buenas noches” to an older lady sitting near the door. She responds and then tellss me, in Spanish, “In Euskera we say ‘Gabon’.” For the rest of the evening, I say Gabon to everyone and they obviously appreciate the small effort.

With the bar shuttered, I think we’re going home but, no, we go next door to the other open bar, Birjilanda, where Cian speaks to an acquaintance, an African from Senegal. He and I speak English for a while and a drunker companion of his keeps telling me that Kemi is in Spain illegally. Cian conferences with the the owner and, although the grill is closed, orders a delicious hamburger which we split 3 ways over another round of red wine. I switched to lemon soda hours ago. Burger devoured, this bar is also closing, so we finally walk up the hill to home. I’ve never shut down one bar before, never mind two.

In the morning, Manu heads off to surf, Cian is still fast asleep in his apartment, and I head out before 11 AM for the short drive to Bilbao, Basque country’s largest city but not its capital.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/11/05/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-24-23-10-26-bilbao-the-ancient-basque-seaport/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/10/23/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-16-getting-high-in-the-spanish-pyrenees/

Monday evening, shortly before dark, I arrive at my hosts, who live in the intriguingly named “Casa de la Presa” (The Dam House). As instructed, I walk across a suspension foot bridge and find myself in a set of channels, gates, and small dams. Wending my way along and across the works, past “Authorized Persons Only” signs, I come to a charming two-story house adjacent to the waterways and nestled under a towering limestone cliff.

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As I enter, I’m welcomed by my hosts, Maite and Jordi, who warn me their home is full of bones – and indeed it is. Skulls on shelves, skeletons on tables, disarticulated animals in file drawers, bones everywhere!

After settling into my room, I naturally ask about the story of the house. I’ve resolved to speak Spanish here to improve my comprehension and vocabulary but it quickly becomes obvious we have way too much to say to each other so, without comment, we lapse into English most of the time. It’s quickly apparent that Maite’s favorite English expression is “Super cool!” and everything we talk about for the next few days is so designated at some point.

Briefly, the works used to have a damkeeper but they were automated long ago and the house fell into disrepair during over 15 years of abandonment. This is not a dam that holds back a reservoir, but one that regulates stream flow entering a covered ditch which channels the water into a penstock miles downstream that powers three hydroelectric turbines. Maite and Jordi approached the power company 20 years ago and asked to be allowed to renovate the house and live there rent-free. This would benefit the company by creating a presence on the property and having unexpected problems reported promptly.

The arrangement formalized, they began renovating, at great effort and significant expense. The house has absolutely no vehicle access. All material must be carried or wheeled by hand cart from the highway and is limited to the narrow width of the walkway. They said getting the refrigerator in was particularly challenging. The power company supplies their electricity and water without charge and the lack of rent makes it a unique and cheap home. Privacy is assured because in addition to the pedestrian limitation, anyone entering the area without an invitation is trespassing.

Maite is an accredited archaeologist and Jordi plays a major role in digging, finding artifacts, and preparing them. They primarily study Neanderthals and have expanded the accepted age and cultural level of that extinct species. Much of that work is done through examination of animal bones, e.g. by searching for evidence of tool use on them and the relationship of bones to firepit charcoal, which can be dated by various methods.

The archaeology digs alone don’t explain the plethora of bones in the house. Bears have been re-introduced back into the Pyrenees. Since the initial Slovenia transplants were released, the species has thrived. To keep the peace, farmers and ranchers are compensated for any livestock killed by bears. The lucrative payments naturally give the farmers a perverse incentive to claim any dead animal is a bear victim. To reduce cheating, the government contracts with Maite and Jordi to investigate the deaths and determine which are legitimate bear kills, rather than other causes such as dogs, natural or accidental demise, etc.

They examine the carcasses, then boil them to clean off the meat, and study the bare bones for damage characteristic to bears vs other predators. If they can show bears were not involved, the claimant receives no compensation. Jordi has a small shop under the cliff and away from the main house where he boils carcasses for 20 hours at a time. I didn’t make it into the shop but I’m sure this is not neat and odorless work.

He has also wired together many skeletons into high quality re-creations, which reside in the house and outdoors. The two of them literally live in a museum.

After some hours of conversation, I hit the hay and sleep to the sound of falling water outside the window.

Tuesday morning dawns cloudy with the threat of rain. There’s a small village high up on the far side of the valley that Maite says can be reached by trail.

Normally, she would accompany me on such excursions but, tragically, she has a herniated spinal disk and has been in severe pain for many months. Since I suffered two long periods of identical issues 13 and 28 years ago, I’m one of the few people that fully understand her agony of chronic back spasms and sciatica. Thanks to our shared experience, Maite and I quickly develop a common bond of misery empathy. Her doctor has finally opted for surgery and Maite carries her phone with her every minute, waiting for the call that it’s been scheduled. All the while I’m there, she doesn’t get that call, but I reassure her repeatedly that my two operations were both long lasting, overnight, miracle fixes.

I think about hiking to the village but it’s raining intermittently and, as I’ve warned countless people, including my son who does it frequently, hiking alone can turn what, with a companion, would be a minor mishap into a fatal accident. The threatening weather is enough excuse to just hang around and enjoy the dam property.

Reinforcing my caution, Maite tells me a horrible story. Some time ago she was hiking alone on one of the local trails. During a descent, her foot slipped out from under her and she slammed supine to the ground, one knee shattered with multiple breaks but, fortunately, not a compound fracture (i.e. no exposed bone piercing the skin). Completely immobilized and in excruciating pain she managed to extract her phone. She knew that many portions of the steep terrain have no cell service and she was desperately hoping she was not in one of them. In the cool weather, she was inadequately dressed for spending hours on the cold, damp ground and knew she was likely to die of hypothermia without prompt aid. Fortunately, her phone was in range of a tower and, additionally, her brother is part of a mountain rescue squad. She reached him and he brought assistance in the shortest time possible.

Although this undoubtedly saved her life, she needed very extensive surgery to put her knee back together with metal screws, straps, and bone transplanted from elsewhere in her body. About a year ago, with the knee healed but chronically painful, she had all the metal removed, I imagine against medical advice. She is now told to abstain from a number of athletic activities forever. Five seconds is all it takes to permanently change your life.

I spend some hours prowling the grounds, noting the engineering of the gates, dams, and sluiceways. At one point, I hear a motor come to life and an automated rake on a timer scrapes floating leaves off one of the trash racks keeping debris from going downstream to the turbines.

Maite and Jordi are quite self sufficient, eating a lot of local products, their own garden-grown vegetables, and eggs from their three chickens. Every meal I eat here is tasty and unusual. You could easily call their unique living situation paradise, although one requiring a lot of hard work.

My contribution is duck paté. I found some at a Girona supermarket for what turned out to be a mismarked price. It was such a bargain, I bought six packages and I’ve been carrying it in my cold bag and eating paté sandwiches every day since. I arrived here with one package left and Jordi really enjoys it, so I leave it all to him.

This evening, I get a surprise. Maite is also a rock and roll singer/guitarist and she has invited a younger friend, Natalya, to come over. The two of them are going to do a concert just for me! Keep in mind that all the hospitality Maite offers me is done by someone who can’t sit or stand for more than a an hour or two before the pain reaches a level where she’s forced to lie down. That’s the kind of crazy shit that I might attempt, too, but normal people would just say, “I’m in severe pain, so you can’t visit.”

They do more than 10 songs, among them Pink Floyd, Dylan, John Denver – a broad range of styles. No one has ever done that for me, certainly no one I just met the day before. It’s a great evening, full of laughter as usual. I try to introduce them to some of my favorites – You May Be Right, Bad Case of Loving You, The Marvelous Toy – but they aren’t as enthused as I am.

In this YouTube video, Maite is playing bass and Natalya is singing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QkbtfYI3YnE

Eventually, the delicious food is mostly gone, Natalya goes home, Maite is forced to get horizontal, and the evening ends. What a great time – super cool!

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Wednesday morning, it’s raining continuously and the sky is very dark. Once again, I decide to postpone hiking and stick close to home. It’s a good day to write, send out hosting requests, and take occasional forays into the yard during the short rain free intervals. When Jordi comes home from his day job – trucking waste water between various local treatment plants – we have sourdough pancakes, which is one of the go to meals I prepare as a token of appreciation for hosts. I had started the batter two nights ago and now it’s very frothy. We eat some pancakes with a savory vegetable mixture and others with sweet toppings, American style. They must have enjoyed them because they’re all scarfed down pretty quickly.

I walk out along the path to get a little outdoor break and see the water flow is now so heavy that the three foot high waterfall that separates the holding pond from the sluiceway has disappeared because they’re both at the same height. A lot of rain today.

The three of us spend more hours talking archaeology, bones, politics, evolution, and attitudes for life. I tell Maite that I characterize myself as a cheerful pessimist, in the sense that, yes, human society is circling the drain but I’m not going to let it ruin my day. Her retort is that she’s a cheerful optimist in that she is confident humans are about to relinquish their dominant, powerful role on the planet and make much needed room for the evolution of other species, which will be, of course, super cool. We both agree that technological progress has far outstripped the excruciatingly slow process of evolution. We’re wielding planetary scale tools with what is, essentially, still a paleolithic brain. Also, that the mortality rate is 100%, medical statistics notwithstanding. Everything dies.

With that, the evening ends. About 1 AM, an outside noise wakes me up. Looking out the window, I see two utility employees under floodlights on the catwalks, adjusting various water gates and removing debris, doubtless to forestall flooding problems.

Thursday morning, it’s still raining but this is my last day before moving on so I’m determined to go sightseeing and hiking. Not far to the north is Aigüestortes i Estany de Sant Maurici National Park, The first part translates in Catalan as “winding streams” and the second as Lake Saint Maurice. As these are the only two road accessible areas and are an opposite sides of the large park, I’m going to circumnavigate the whole thing to visit them both. Leaving the dam, I head east on yet another of those narrow, winding, paved roads, past tranquil Lake Montcortés.

I do manage to get photo of a kite flying above me during a stop. At high magnification and without a tripod it’s mediocre at best but it does show the kite’s characteristic forked tail.

I then pass dramatic rock ridges into the deep valley of the Noguera Pallarasa River.

The road follows the river upstream through a very deep and narrow canyon through that rock

and then many miles further up a slightly wider valley. The river is quite tame yet I pass puzzling signs advertising white water rafting.

Apparently, during tourist season, an upstream dam releases voluminous water during the day for rafting and then almost shuts the river off at night. I make an arbitrary turn up a steep, dead end road. The village at the top is disappointing as it’s vacation condos built to look old, but I do find a very interesting stone barn on the way up.

The scenery along the valley is quite nice except for Spain’s habit of placing electric transmission lines, often multiples, on prominent slopes, disturbing the view for long stretches.

I reach the turn off for the national park and drive up a small road to a much higher parking area. It’s been raining off and on the whole way but I decide to walk up a 2.5 mile trail to the park’s namesake lake.

For a short while the trail is a wheelchair accessible wooden walkway and then becomes a well-engineered stone path steadily ascending up the valley.

Unfortunately, on a wet day like this, the beautiful construction of wood and flat stones becomes very slippery and I have to take care not to lose my footing, even though I’m wearing hiking boots. I have Maite’s accident firmly in mind.

The forest is principally fir and pine, with a few very large specimens. Deciduous trees have a hard time on this slope.

A paved road parallels the trail, which always annoys me. It’s much less fun hiking somewhere you can drive. That’s why I’ve never ascended Mt Washington in New Hampshire on foot. It’s depressing to slog thousands of vertical feet up a brutal trail only to find a big parking lot and underdressed tourists eating in the restaurant.

In this case, though, the road is for authorized vehicles only and is above the trail, so the only disturbance is the noise of an occasional passing car. The latter part of the walk is a steep dirt road and I arrive at the lake with some additional uphill effort. Except for three school groups going down as I ascend, the area is pretty deserted due to the weather and time of year. Tall mountains surround the lake and there’s a roofed shelter to offer some respite from the light rain.

My stamina for level hiking hasn’t changed much over the past 20 or 30 years. I can still go a long way under modest backpack load. Ascent, though, is noticeably different these days. My uphill pace has slowed and I make a lot more 5 second rest stops than I remember, to let my leg muscles remedy their oxygen deficit. It’s not nearly as bad as 15 years ago in Peru where, on the steep, high altitude trail it was step, step, step, breathe, breathe, breathe — why the hell isn’t there more oxygen up here! That wasn’t due to age.

After soaking up, literally, the views, I head back down. The rain gets heavier and constant so the walk down is soggy. Son, Eric, has loaned me a pullover raincoat and today I really appreciate it. My formerly trusty, zippered LL Bean rain jacket has over the last 2 years failed distressingly – all the seam sealing tape has come unglued making it quite leaky. I forgot to replace it before I left the US and I would have been soaked to the skin today without Eric’s substitute.

The trail is an out-and-back, so to make it into a loop, if only a trivial one, I choose to walk the longer paved road once I encounter it. I don’t meet any humans or animals on the way down and the steady rain makes for a very pleasant descent despite the pavement. Since I didn’t wear my rain pants, the runoff from the rain jacket has soaked my blue jeans but for the distance and weather, there’s no danger of hypothermia, so I don’t care.

Back at the car, it feels good to have taken even a short hike. Again navigating the narrow, paved road back to the highway — this time in heavy rain, I continue my counterclockwise drive around the park while a 30 minute blast of the car heater dries my pants in short order.

The road goes up over a pass and past a summer-closed ski area. At the top there’s a monument to the first snowblower used there – kind of quirky.

Descending back into a valley of ski resort towns, I pick up two Spanish young people hitchhiking at a bus stop. As we’re talking in the car, the woman asks why I picked them up because no one ever does. I explained that I’ve traveled many thousands of kilometers “a dedo” (on my finger, i.e. thumb) so I always return the favor. She asks why I say “thumb” and I have to explain that in the US you stick out a thumb to solicit a ride. When I later relate this to Maite, she’s puzzled at the question because she says the same technique is used in Spain. The couple work in the ski industry in the winter and semi-starve the rest of the year. They ask me to drop them off in the town of Vielha. I ask them if that means “old”, since in various Romance languages the word is “velha”, “vell”, “viejo”, “vieille”, etc. They, Castilian Spanish speakers, say “no”. When I get home, Maite looks it up and finds it does mean “old” — in Aranese, yet another obscure Romance language that’s spoken in that area of Spain. I’ve never even heard of it and it’s so obscure that Google Translate doesn’t handle it.

Coming around to the west side of the park, I encounter more tunnels, as has been common in Spain. In fact, it appears the Spanish like tunnels as much as Swiss, whom I’ve described in the past as building tunnels the way other people change underwear. None of the Spanish tunnels match the absurd lengths of Switzerland’s longest ones, but some are miles long. In the US, tunnels are a last resort. Highway engineers and contractors much prefer to remove enormous portions of a mountain to build a straight, level road rather than drill through it.

Still in heavy rain, I turn off up a valley to the Aigüestortes area. Visibility is very limited by the low cloud ceiling but the excursion is still worthwhile. I can’t get to the “winding stream” portion, which is beyond the end of the public road. In fact, the gate is closed, not just to cars, but to all entry. I suspect this is due to dangers related to the severe weather but there’s not a soul around to ask. The heavy rain has made the steep stream that drains the valley into a torrent with lots of water flowing over the rocks – very pretty and impressive.

The other interesting feature is boulders, massive ones at the base of the steep canyon walls. Some of these are much larger than a house, bigger than any I’ve ever seen. The lack of detectable scars on the forested slopes above make me think they are enormous erratics, pushed and then deposited by long ago glaciers.

The ride back home is uneventful. At a gas station, I overhear two very soggy motorcyclists speaking in German, so I ask where they’re from. One of them is indeed German, but the other is German-raised but returned to Catalunya – another example of a family forced out of Spain by Franco-era repression.

We have several minutes of pleasant conversation before I continue on. Only 200 feet further,my phone rings and I pull into a truck parking area to answer it. It’s Susan – our oil furnace, which has been acting up recently is now completely unwilling to run. In the past this has been due to a failed flame sensor, which tells the control unit that the furnace has indeed ignited and does not need to be shut off to prevent accumulation of unburnt fuel. I ordered a sensor last week and it has arrived. Our friend, Vernon, is there to paint our outside deck and he installs the sensor while on the phone with me. The furnace still fails to stay ignited and after each shutdown smoke is being emitted from who knows where. We agree that professional help is needed and I spend a long time on the phone with the fuel company arranging an emergency service call. They agree to come in the next few hours, so the problem is now out of my hands, except for the probably absurd expense.

By now, darkness has set in for the last 17 miles of my drive home. It turns out that much of the road, despite being a national highway, winds severely and narrowly along a sinuous river canyon, not to mention two one-way sections controlled by alternating traffic lights. The nighttime, rainy drive is pretty challenging but far less than it could have been because the road is very well marked by reflectors, giving me good visual clues as to the approach of the next blind curve. I don’t see another car the whole way. Apparently, Spaniards all shelter in place during storms. After parking the car, a last rainy walk across the suspension bridge brings me safely home to Casa de la Presa. The waterways are still very full but the power company adjustments are now dumping more water into the stream bed so the sluiceway is a bit below its maximum capacity.

Maite is co-author on a journal article regarding taphonomy. Yes, it’s a new word to me, too, referring to the study of how organisms decay and become fossilized or preserved in the paleontological record. This article is discusses experiments with using artificial intelligence to classify the origin of various bone markings. Another author has written the draft in English, Maite has already edited it for errors and English usage, and she would like me to go over her version and put it into grammatic and natural American English. I’m happy to take on this challenge and agree to do it in the morning before I leave. With that, I say my heartfelt goodbyes to Jordi since he’ll be at work when I leave tomorrow and head up to bed.

Friday morning, I cook up the last of the pancake batter for breakfast (waste not, want not) and attack the journal article. I come up with a dozen or two minor edits regarding British spelling, Latin/English consistency, noun/adjective and singular/plural agreement, acronym definition, comma/apostrophe usage, and some confusing phrasing. Maite’s written English is very good but she greatly appreciates and adopts my edits. That finished, she and I say very reluctant goodbyes. I again wish her a quick and total cure of her back problem and my hope she overcomes her admittedly irrational fear of flying so they can visit us in New York. I lug my stuff across the walkways and bridge to the car and I’m off westward.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2023/10/30/road-trip-europe-ii-23-10-16-23-10-20-first-time-in-basque-country/