Just as one swallow does not a summer make, one sunny weekend away in the campervan doesn’t necessarily mean that our springtime has really sprung. But two weekends on the bounce? Well, now you’re talking.
Being the unpredictable, adventurous souls that we are, this weekend we packed the van and headed off to……drum roll please…..Teverga! Ah, but there is more to this valley than may have met the eye of my blog readers thus far. Saturday we headed straight to the Puerto de Marabio, a high mountain pass with stunning views, a little hermitage, great walking and biking tracks and, you guessed it, some great rock climbing too.
Puerto de Marabio
Further irrefutable confirmation of the arrival of spring lay all around us, despite the presence of snowy caps on the very high mountains in the background. Spring flowers carpeted the meadows and poked their heads joyously out of every available nook and cranny.
The hillsides were speckled with blossom laden trees and the stark nakedness of their wintry branches was softened as nature began to dress them once more. Here’s a picture of a tree I photographed in its autumn finery at the end of November now displaying the latest spring-summer greens.
Another season, another windy day
I guess in reality winter has been relatively short-lived here, the harshest of the weather only really kicking in in mid-January, but it has felt long enough and we are all glad to be returning to a life spent more outdoors.
Another weekend, another chance to play in the dirt
Another day, another place to sleep
Another Sunday, another cave-based siesta. Somebody just woked up. This playing outdoors all day sure is tiring.
Happy Springtime everybody, and happy Earth Day too!
Linking up to Country Kids at Coombe Mill. Click the badge to hop on over and check out lots more family fun in the outdoors.
Finally, last week, spring decided it was time to be properly sprung and then rapidly proceeded to catapult us full pelt into summer. With temperatures forecast to be in the high 20s over the weekend there was only one thing for it: load up the autocaravana and hit the road.
As time was short (and our van painfully slow-moving) we decided on a brief trundle just as far as the valleys of Quirós and Teverga, south of Oviedo city. The ‘Valles del Oso’ or valleys of the bear as they are known. (And yes, they do actually have some bears there.) It’s a great spot for family days out, has some world class sports climbing and some great places for overnight van camping. So that’s all our boxes ticked then. Who needs to travel further afield when you have all this on your doorstep?
Clear blue skies, with one rather odd shaped cloud, above a high snowy peak in Quirós last weekend
The carpark at Entrago, Teverga as the sun came up on Sunday morning. Very popular with climbers and families from Oviedo and Gijón there are always plenty of children to play with at weekends here. It´s a great spot for free van camping with newly built toilet and shower block, water and waste facilities, a football pitch, and kiddies’ climbing wall as well as being alongside the Senda del Oso path and in the heart of the Teverga valley. Oh, and there´s a couple of bars and restaurants just round the corner too. Perfect.
Saturday we spent at the very family-friendly crag of Quirós, at sector La Selva. With plenty of trees providing shade at the foot of the crag this was the perfect place for a very hot day. As well as preventing the many children there from burning the trees also provided some unroped climbing opportunities for them.
This year we have finally abandoned the baby back pack and Jack is managing the approach to crags (mostly) under his own steam. I can´t tell you what a liberation this is! The last couple of years it has mainly fallen to Richie to carry the backpack with Jack, an increasingly heavy, and oftentimes wriggling, load. Meanwhile I have been playing my part by carrying up ALL the climbing gear. So that´s a 70 metre rope, a couple of harnesses, 20 or so metal quick draws, shoes etc. Oh, and probably some food and water too. Not to mention a few toys and perhaps some sun cream. I think what I´m trying to say is it´s been HEAVY. Especially on the steeper approaches, where I have on occasion found myself huffing and puffing and bent forward like an old crone. Now that my load has been lightened after such a long time it feels almost like I can breezily levitate uphill. Winner.
Of course walking with a toddler does mean taking things at a rather more leisurely pace. Jack, Dogly and I made the (usually 20 minute) descent to the car from La Selva in a sedately fascinating hour or so. There were flowers to be sniffed, sticks to be collected, water to be drunk from fuentes and cows and goats to be inspected.
The ministry of silly walks.
Eventually we made it down to the carpark by 6pm. At which point Jack insisted on taking out his balance bike for some off-roading action. Only when he was covered top to bottom in muddy splashes, true mountain biker style, after some daring stream traversing was he finally content to return to the camper for tea. Meanwhile his poor mother was exhausted from chasing him up and down the bumpy paths as he gleefully chucked himself downhill at speed. Still, my payoff came the next morning when he slept in until 9 am.
Climbing at Eléctricos, Teverga
Sunday was spent climbing with more friends at Electricós in Teverga while Jack mainly played with his diggers in the dirt, made letters from twigs and sneaked in a little siesta in a shady cave. That evening we happily trundled home again, all contentedly exhausted from a weekend spent playing outdoors.
This week we’re back to school after the Easter break. The whole ‘back to school’ thing is still new to us but any pangs of sadness I felt on Monday morning were considerably lessened by the sight of Jack in a big hug with his teacher and then being bundled on top of in a mass hug from his little buddies. If there is that much love, joy and hugs in the classroom then it can’t be all bad. Forget Ofsted reports, for now I’m happy with a simple Hug-o-meter.
That said, I was just thinking how if a film was ever made about our little life here (I’m expecting to hear from Hollywood any day now, obvs ) then the soundtrack would most likely be some delightful pastoral melodies (think: la-la-la, tinkly, tinkly, tinkly) right up until mid-September last year, when Jack started school. At this point there would be an almightily loud and dissonant scratch and an abrupt dive into ‘Welcome to the Jungle,’ Guns and Roses style. (Melodramatic, moi?)
While I had previously expressed my reservations about Jack starting school so young (he wasn’t even 3 until the end of October for heavens’ sake!) I now realise that I actually didn’t have a clue about the impact that school would have on us and our lives. And, no, I don’t just mean the early mornings. Although those still do hurt. (Pathetic, but true.)
Of course in reality I totally suppressed the thought of failed to grasp how hard the initial wrench would be for me: the giving up of absolute control over his environment 24/7. Ok, now I sound like a scary control freak. But I’m not. I’m far too lazy to ever be a control freak, trust me. WAY too much effort. No, I’m just a mother who was used to spending all day with my baby almost every day. Being there to protect him, to feed him to hold him, to love him. As a result, for the first week or two of school I was a highly-strung, snappy, neurotic wreck tad overwrought.
My state of mind wasn’t helped on Day 2 when, aimlessly wandering up the road seeking diversion from the constant gnawing questions in my mind (‘what will he be doing right now? is he okay? is he scared? is he happy? HAVE I DONE THE RIGHT THING?’), I bumped into my neighbour. Not unusual, nor usually a bad thing. Then she told me that her daughter-in-law had just been called down to the school to take her son to the doctors. Why? Because Jack had poked him in the eye.
FAN-flipping-tastic. Day 2 of school and my son was already a juvenile delinquent having sent someone to hospital. And not just any someone but the much beloved and cosseted son of the Arse-iest Lady in the Village, as I fondly thought of her. And I don’t mean the size of her backside but rather the size of her attitude. By now I was feeling even sicker than I had been before. You know the feeling, that nausea that comes from the constant pressure on your kidneys as adrenalin steadily courses through your system, stopping you from sleeping, eating or being in the least bit reasonable.
It wasn’t a great time for another neighbour to pick to question my refusal to send Jack in the school transport. First, let me clarify. I had always intended to drive him to school myself for the first week or so. The thought of abandoning my tiny boy at a bus stop and sending him off into the unknown on his own at 8.15 one random morning was more than my heart could bear. I also had concerns over safety as I was unhappy about sending him in a car or bus with no car seat. Like I said, he was tiny. I had visions of him, at best, sliding off the seat as the people carrier rounded one of the many tight bends on the hill down to school. Let’s not even go to the ‘at worst’ scenarios.
I didn’t think it was particularly unreasonable of me to want to personally check out the transport provision before consigning my most precious cargo to it. My friend, mother to another school child from the village, thought differently. Pooh-poohing my concerns didn’t make me feel any better about any of it. And when she made the classic statement: ‘But P’s the same age as Jack and his mother is sending him in the taxi without making a big fuss about it,’ I’ll admit I saw red. All that adrenalin coursing through my system and nowhere to go. Until now.
Turns out it’s not all that easy to think of the Spanish for ‘Well if P’s mum jumped off a cliff does that mean I should too?’ off the top of your head when the top of your head is actually blowing steam. I think I got my meaning across pretty thoroughly however, despite garbled grammar, mangled pronunciation and generalised high-pitched, squeaking.
Thankfully my adrenal glands slowed down their fierce pumping action gradually over the next few days, as it became apparent that Jack was adjusting and that the classroom environment was warm and family-like. I loved that the teacher was happy to chat to parents at the start or end of any school day and that dropping him off in the morning I got to spend 5 or ten minutes chatting with her and some other parents at the classroom door and watching the children doing their thing and finding their feet in there. This rather relaxed, informal approach is a luxury that is possible in such a tiny school; with a total of less than 20 children in two classes.
At pick up one afternoon that first week I also had a chat with the taxi driver on the school run and managed to allay my fears in that respect. While the children did normally travel with just lap belts (the top strap of the seatbelt placed behind them) it was totally fine if I wanted to send Jack with a car seat so that he could be strapped in correctly.
And even Arsey Lady managed to surprise me over the eye-poking incident. ‘Bah….war wounds,’ she shrugged….and, Good Lord!, was that the whisper of a smile I saw round the edges of her mouth? Maybe she wasn’t such a battleaxe after all.
But just as my hormonal systems lowered the alert from red to peaceful green all hell broke loose again. This time it was my friend who thought I was making such a big fuss about the car seat. Her and her husband’s beef started off over the location of the bus stop in the village and ended one morning in a stand-up row with another set of parents over which of their children got to sit in the front of the taxi. Seriously.
Turns out that one of the things they ought to warn you about when your child starts school is that any parent can turn bat-shit crazy as over-protective of their young as a jungle big cat at the least provocation. Oh, and if your child happens to be starting school in Spain, whatever you do don’t provoke a parent in the morning. Spanish parents, on the whole, do not appreciate an early start. (Even less than I do, it would appear.)
By the time the month of March comes around spring is well and truly on the way in Asturias. Winter is behind us and while we can still spy snow on the high mountain tops we have long since had our one annual day of snow cover here in the hills close to the sea.
So you can imagine everyone’s surprise when, last Wednesday, we woke to this:
And it wasn’t just a light dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. It was this deep:
Don’t think anyone will be sitting on that chair anytime soon
Or hanging out washing on that line…
The morning air was subdued and still and not a soul stirred in the village. Well, until the little boy from next door caught Jack’s attention window-to-window.
Then it was time to dig out our snow gear and head out for some fun.
A snowboarding helmet is obviously a vital piece of equipment for the day that’s in it.
With no power and no chance of the internet repair man making it for his designated appointment (after a week of waiting for him!) it was destined to be a day of play for everyone. Kudos to our electricity suppliers however as somehow, despite the treacherous weather conditions and our remote location, they managed to restore supply before nightfall.
Until today Jack had only ever seen snow either on the far-distant mountain tops or on Caillou (a Canadian kids cartoon that airs on Spanish tv.) Today the snow line was forecast to dip to 300m above sea level (we live at a little over 400 metres). And dip it did. We woke to this.
In retrospect it was just as well that the ferry we were planning on taking to Portsmouth today had been cancelled due to gales in the Bay of Biscay. It could have been a stressful drive to the ferry port, assuming we were able to exit the village in the first place. As it was, instead of rushing to Santander for 12.00pm we had plenty of time to indulge Jack’s wonder at the white stuff.
When we ventured outside there was some initial whingeing surprise at just how cold it was. That’s the crucial aspect that you miss when you’re just looking at snow, whether it be on the horizon, the silver screen or just through the window. Still, once friends from next door had been drafted in for a snowball fight the cold was forgotten about. At least until the hot aches kicked in. By then it was time to retreat, dry off and warm up in front of the fire.
By the time the hot aches had subsided more friends arrived – this time with sledges. They live just 5 kilometres down the road from us but a crucial 150 metres nearer sea level. No snow at all had settled there and so they headed up the hill to ours in search of some sledging action.
We’re going on a snow hunt….
And find it they did. There were thrills…..
And spills…..
And finally, more hot aches. Which signalled time to retire indoors once more. By this stage the snow was rapidly melting anyway. Tomorrow the snow line is forecast to be at 500 metres. With a steep uphill walk we should be able to find some more sledgeable hillsides. And then on Wednesday, storms at sea permitting, we shall be on our way to the UK, where more snow may well await us.
Living the life of an ex-pat you have to say a lot of goodbyes. There’s the initial wrenching goodbye to your old life, your old country, your family and friends. Then every time you visit ‘home’ you have to say goodbye again at the end of it. And every time your family or friends from ‘home’ visit you, you have to say goodbye again at the end of that too. A lot of goodbyes. And who can say goodbye without a sense of sadness? Not me.
On the flip side, if you know that your goodbye is just around the corner it’s a very strong encouragement to make the most out of the time you have together. These last few weeks have been all about that. (And hence my lack of blogging.)
With a January visit from Dan, Jack’s big brother, we did our best to cram a good few month’s worth of quality family time into a too-brief week. There were afternoons in the play park, football on the beach, board-games galore, and a now-traditional family visit to the fabulous wildlife park at Cabárceno. (Conveniently located just 20 minutes from Santander airport, where Dan flew into.)
Most importantly of all though, there was plenty of time for brotherly snuggles on the sofa and simply hanging out together. It always melts our hearts to see how close and strong the bond is between Jack and Dan despite their gap in age and the geographical gap that separates them most of the year.
January also saw another big goodbye for us as some good friends of ours embarked on their own expat adventure, leaving Asturias for a new life in Colorado. For Jenna it will be a return home but for her husband Pablo it will be his first experience of living life abroad. Exciting times but very much tinged with sadness for us as we will all miss them both.
Luckily we got the chance to spend a lot of time with them just before they left. They had already left their jobs and so were free to climb and hang out as much as they wanted. The weather was kind and we were able to get out cragging under blue skies as much as our own work commitments would allow.
We even got to celebrate Jenna’s birthday with her, taking her and Pablo for a surf lesson at our local beach. This was something we had been promising to do with them for the last couple of years but never quite gotten around to. With the threat of that big goodbye hanging over us we finally got our act together and did it. And it was perfect.
It was one of those days when you seem to somehow unconsciously slip into step with the universe and everything just works out fabulously. From bumping into the local surf board shaper in town on the morning and thus managing to acquire a wet suit that fit all six foot three of Pablo who would otherwise have been very cold indeed spent the morning watching from the shore, to arriving at the beach to be greeted by the most perfect beginner waves possible. Some thoughtful soul had even built a little teepee structure from driftwood on the beach much to the delight of Jack who played in it for hours accompanied variously by his parents, brother and sand-digging greyhound.
It’s been a lovely Christmas holiday here in Asturias. The sun has shone and shone and we have climbed and climbed. Today is cooler and wet – a good day to catch up on a little writing and reflecting in front of the wood burner. As I type my body is aching from this unaccustomed barrage of consecutive climbing days. My head is aching a little too, but that’s a different story
Our friend David in mid-flight. Villa de Sub, December 23rd.
Santa Claus visited last week and scored top marks with his gift. The instructions to him had been nice and specific and easy to follow: ‘a Fireman Sam fire engine with lots of buttons and flashing lights and a nee-naw’. The house has echoed to wailing sirens ever since.
The jolly red fellow also delivered gifts from grandparents and relatives in the UK, including Jack’s first camera. He’s already building an impressive photography portfolio. Some of the photos are at rather an artistic angle and some of the close-up portraits of his parents are less than flattering, taken as they are from his viewpoint, looking up. Great for capturing double chins and nasal hairs. Luckily Mum gets veto over any publication.
The beach on Christmas Day, at a rather jaunty angle. Copyright Jack.
A cheeky self-portrait of the photographer
Now we just have to sit it out and wait for the Reyes Magos (the three Kings) who pay their visit on 6th January (the feast of the Epiphany.) Traditionally it is the Reyes who bring children their gifts in Spain and so it is that we find ourselves rather awkwardly caught between two Christmas cultures. I would have been tempted to traitorously ditch the Santa Claus tradition entirely in favour of the Reyes if it were not for their timing. Presents that arrive the day before the new school term starts can’t be played with in the Christmas holidays. And that would suck. For everybody. So Santa had to visit but so do the Reyes so that Jack isn’t the only child in the village to wake up to an empty stocking on the 6th. Because that would suck even more.
Jack delivers his letter to Prince Aliatar, the messenger to the Kings, at the school Christmas show. Note: I am not the only one confused by the surfeit of present-giving traditions, all the children were wearing Santa Claus hats!
Happy New Year everyone! May 2013 bring you all that you wish for (via whichever wish delivery system you choose to believe in )
As do we. It’s quite impossible to resist. The proliferation of the sweet chestnut tree is such that the roads are carpeted in their fruit at this time of year. In fact, I regularly suffer pangs of conscience as the car bumps over yet another prodigious patch of them, plastering them pointlessly to the tarmac. Such waste.
So, quite apart from dedicated foraging trips to the woods or chestnut groves, and much to the annoyance of our energetic greyhound, our daily roadside walks have become grossly extended in time but not distance, as I cannot resist stopping to stuff my pockets to bursting every few paces. As I roll yet another spiky chestnut casing underfoot to reveal its shiny bounty within, the hound prances about impatiently, occasionally resorting to a gentle nip on my sleeve to remind me where my focus ought to be.
Luckily, in addition to bones, meat and all things stolen, our greyhound is also partial to a roasted nut or two, so his payoff comes in the evenings, as he lolls in front of the woodburner which currently doubles up as a perpetual chestnut roaster.
We heart chestnuts
The history of the chestnut in the culture of Asturias is as rich as the velvety flesh of the nut itself. Introduced by the Romans, the chestnut was the staple food of northern Spain for many centuries, providing the main source of nutrition and being consumed in many forms, including flour. Knowing this, the nutty autumnal abundance falls neatly into place.
And so it is that the Asturian version of harvest festival, ‘amagüestu’, is a celebration of both the apple and, primarily, the chestnut. And where better to learn about the traditions of a harvest festival than in a school?
Our little country school celebrates amaguestu in fine style, involving people from across the community and the generations. The children and teachers wear full traditional dress and there is gaita music (the Asturian pipes) to accompany their dramatization of chestnut picking throughout the ages. Chestnuts are roasted and the first (non-alcoholic!) pressing of the apples (sidra dulce) is drunk. Families provide the food, with an emphasis on local and seasonal specialties (and cake, because that’s always appropriate!)
All in all it’s a wonderful event and we feel privileged to be part of such a strong community that is still so clearly attached to nature and the traditions that spring forth from that. Mind you, you don’t actually need to go to any school to realise that – you just need to drive down an Asturian country road in Autumn and see all the chestnut collectors in action.
Finally, after months without rain, the drought has ended. This is a cause for great celebration. Crops have suffered, drinking water supplies have dwindled and this corner of ‘Green Spain’ was showing signs of scorching at the edges, its usually lush verdant hues beginning to be tinged an unbecoming yellow and brown.
Now that’s what you call a dry reservoir. El Embalse de Riaño, León this September
Last Wednesday normal service was resumed. Autumn arrived in Asturias with a sudden snappy dip in temperatures and the heavens opened. You could almost hear the earth breathe a sigh of relief.
So shallow and fickle is human nature however (or at least the humans in this household) that by Thursday and with a long weekend looming we’d already become bored with the rain and decided to hightail it over the mountains to León, where drier climes (and, yes, climbs) awaited us.
This is one of the many great things about living in Asturias - we have the best of both worlds. While Asturias has a mild maritime climate, across the Cordillera Cantabrica in León a harsher continental climate reigns, with hot, dry summers and cold, snowy winters. The upshot is that we live mellowly surrounded by soft fertile greens but easily escape the rain that feeds them if it should happen to inconvenience us (i.e. by falling at a weekend).
The drive over the Puerto de San Isidro is always spectacular and perhaps never more so than in autumn. The steep sides of the mountain pass are densely wooded and I have never seen such a variety of shades of reds and yellows as were on display. Sadly, on the way up the pass we weren’t able to make a photo stop, as stopping in our heavy, underpowered motorhome on this steep, unrelenting mountain climb is best avoided for fear of never getting going again. Must. Not. Lose. Momentum. is our mantra, muttered through gritted teeth as we lean forward in our seats desperately trying to stay in third gear.
Looking out from the crag at Pedrosa, Leon
Still, I hope some of the photos from the weekend give at least the tiniest inkling of how beautiful the autumnal colours were. On talking to our friend Alberto about it (he’s a fanatical mountain runner and climber and knows the Cordillera Cantabrica like the back of his hand) he informed me that the very best place to view the autumnal display is by hiking in to the Pena del Viento peak from the top of the pass at San Isidro. From there you look back down into Asturias from León and, he assures me, it is like standing above a volcano, so vivid and startling are the autumnal reds. Maybe next year.
Alberto climbing at Pedrosa, above the Valverdin valley, Saturday morning
Walking back to our motorhome in the early morning chill. (After a dog walk, not a night on the tiles, natch.) We overnighted tucked away in the trees, alongside a river, on the outskirts of the bustling little town of Boñar.
Gratuitous photo of Jack entertaining himself at the crag, learning how to clip a bolt
For the last three weeks the sleepy village of Santolaya de Cabranes (pop. 174) has been home to 26 university students drawn from the four corners of Spain, participants in a summer theatre workshop camp which culminated in a hugely successful performance of ‘teatro en la calle’ on Friday night.
The picturesque village served perfectly as the set for the performance, with a total of ten ‘stages’ dotted throughout, hosting ten different set-pieces that were reprised time and again as the audience was guided in carefully timed groups round the theatrical trail.
The theme of the show was ‘retratando el pasado’ – portraying the past. An apt theme for a production in a locality that is very much rooted in tradition, despite having some not inconsiderable modern trappings (e.g. the fastest fibre-optic broadband I’ve ever come across anywhere in the world!)
The show itself is only one part of the story however. The three week programme as a whole also tells a more contemporary tale of Spanish culture – a tale of collaboration, community and cross-generation co-operation.
The theatre camp (for the third year running) is sponsored by the local council. The students spend the three weeks of the camp sleeping in bunk beds in the village sports hall, being fed in the local bar, visiting some of the outstanding local attractions and learning about Asturian tradition from the very heart of elderly Asturians. In addition to all this, from 5pm – 7pm every day they offer their services as child entertainers for the very young in the village square.
The final show, product of this cross-generational collaboration, showcases the talents of the local children and old folk as well as the visiting students who all contribute to the set, costume and poster production in addition to performing. The players in the performance itself number 80 and range in age from 8 to 80.
Even those without a theatrical bone in their body willingly contribute their time and skills. My elderly neighbour Julián, for example, manned the sidra (cider, the typical Asturian tipple) stall, pouring ‘culines’ gratis for footsore and thirsty street theatre-goers. Contributing something, whatever you have to offer, is the name of the game.
) then the soundtrack would most likely be some delightful pastoral melodies (think: la-la-la, tinkly, tinkly, tinkly) right up until mid-September last year, when Jack started school. At this point there would be an almightily loud and dissonant scratch and an abrupt dive into ‘Welcome to the Jungle,’ Guns and Roses style. (Melodramatic, moi?)
