Contrasts

Our sleek black greyhound makes a fine contrast against the snowy backdrop of San Isidro ski station. His energetic charging about belies the few white hairs that are already sprouting in his fur.

Last weekend we nipped across the mountains of the Cordillera Cantábrica to León. At the top of the mountain pass, just over the border from Asturias, we stopped at San Isidro ski station to have a little play in the snow. (And to give the poor old motor-home’s engine a chance to cool down after the long slog up the windy pass.)

The ski station had long since closed for the season and the contrast between the hot, sunny Saturday in May and the deep blanket of snow that still enveloped the mountain tops provided the perfect physical illustration of the bipolar weather patterns of the last couple of months, as we have flipped back and forwards between spring and winter. Even this high in the mountains, at over 1500 metres above sea level, it is very unusual to see so much snow so late in the year.

As we mucked about and laughed in the sunshine and snow I also couldn’t help but contrast the day with the last time I had been here. 20th December 2008, I ended the day in the first aid centre, with the ski-station’s doctor attempting, unsuccessfully, to re-place my dislocated elbow and putting a provisional cast on to protect my shattered ulna before sending me on my way to hospital. I eventually made it home on Christmas Eve, with a titanium plate and 7 screws in my forearm and a LOT of very strong painkillers in my bloodstream. It’s really no surprise that I hadn’t been back to San Isidro since.

Despite the involuntary shudder that passed through me when I saw the dreaded torture chamber first aid station and as I spied the exact point on the slope where I had been taken out by a snowboarder, it felt good to be back at the scene of the accident, whole and healthy and happy.

Indeed here I am, some 4 and a half years later, in an entirely different phase of my life but a phase that I may never have reached if it hadn’t been for that disastrous day on the slopes. With an enforced stop to all plans and activities for several months (no surfing, no climbing, no diy, no gardening, no writing, no trips) came an enforced pause for reflection and, with that, some life-changing decisions.

And that’s the thing. Even in our bleakest moments there always exists the seed of as yet unknown joys.

Jack, born October 2009

Sightseeing Where You Live

Here’s a truism for you: emigrate and they will come.

One of the things about being an expat is the number of visitors you receive in your new home. Be it family or friends or some vague acquaintance who quite fancies a cheap holiday abroad, emigrate and the visitors will come.

Now most of the time this is lovely and can be a fine excuse to pretend to be on holiday yourself. But after a time you realise that you can no longer uphold the pretense of being on an extended holiday and you have to acknowledge that you are in fact living in the place and have a life there and all the inescapable daily drudgery that that entails. You cannot always be at the beck and call of every visitor.

Lago Enol, Covadonga. Perhaps the most famous spot for sightseeing in Asturias. Image courtesy of Pelayo Alonso Huerta

The most useful tool we have found to defuse this situation and bridge the possible mismatch of expectations between holiday- and home- maker is our annotated map. We are currently on our fifth (and already increasingly tattered) copy of the Michelin road map of Asturias, on which we have labelled up an array of attractions across the region, complete with driving times from home and other useful information. Visitors with children? Why not check out the dinosaur museum, 30 minutes drive, free on Wednesdays, with a great playpark, cafe and a lovely beach alongside. Culture vulture? The Niemeyer Centre in Avilés is a must visit – the building alone is spectacular and their arts programming is vibrant and internationally relevant.

All our favourite beaches are marked, from tiny coves to exposed surf breaks. For walkers, bikers and climbers we highlight some great itineraries. For anyone on their first visit to the region we recommend a trip to Covadonga and the Lakes  to take in the magnificent, quintessentially Asturian views from the mountains to the sea.

Thus our visitors can pick and choose what most appeals to them and can self-direct their own sightseeing. But that´s not to say that we leave them entirely to their own devices. Depending on schedules (and quality of relationship!) we, of course, do our fair share of hanging out together. With some guests in fact it´s all about the hanging out and very little about the sightseeing. When grandparents come, for example, all they really want is some time with their darling boy. In which instance we consult the annotated map ourselves to remind us of where some good local restaurants are and we dash out the door to leave them to their bonding.

The view from the top of our hill, to the Picos at sunset on a winter’s evening. Every day I walk to the top of the hill with the dog and every day the view that awaits me is different, depending on season, time of day and quality of light. I love it.

In all honesty, the most telling sightseeing we share with visitors is often the simplest and the closest to home. The views from our garden as we share a meal and a glass of wine. Sharing a dog walk up the lane is a lovely opportunity for a chin-wag as well as to spy the profusion of wild flowers that fill the hedgerows and to gasp at the views from the top of  the hill, with the jagged, snow-capped Picos mountains in one direction and the wide Atlantic ocean in the other.

Sunset from home

These are the views that mark my everyday. They are the views that still cause me to catch my breath despite having lived with them for over seven years. Changing light and weather can always throw up a new vision that has me running back inside for my camera. They are the sights that tell, in a large part, the story of why I live where I do and why I love where I live.

This post was written in response to the prompt ‘sightseeing where you live,’ courtesy of The American Resident and her ‘Love Where You Live’ Linky. Click the badge below to read more posts on the same theme.

Monday Morning Moves

This was how Monday morning was supposed to go: arise refreshed, calmly feed, water and dispatch child to school, hit the gym at opening time (8.30, this is Spain after all), have invigorating workout, return home raring to go and race through lengthy list of tasks. Boom! Take that Monday.

Here’s how Monday morning actually went: arose reasonably refreshed, plonked child in front of his Weetabix while I prepared his mid-morning snack for school, child commented he was feeling dizzy, I dismissed his Monday morning dissembling, child vomited on breakfast table. Arse. Take that Mummy.

So, no school today. And therefore no gym and very little work for me. I am sadly not one of those multi-tasking marvel mothers that taunt my inadequacies you read about in the media. The extent of my multi-tasking this morning has been snuggling the poorly boy in bed and simultaneously fannying on on social media on the ipad. I know. Get me a medal someone.

I rationalize this lack of productivity by telling myself that the continued propagation of the ideal of feminine multi-tasking is plainly anti-feminist.  That, and the fact that I really do perform so much more effectively when I have time and undivided attention to devote to tasks.

Whatever. As I lie here at an incredibly unergonomic angle that I know my neck will pay for later, typing on my laptop, listening to my son’s snuffling sleep breathing and feeling his hand clutching my hair for that extra bit of reassurance that feeling poorly makes necessary, I know that I am privileged to be able to take this time with him. The years where snuggles in bed are demanded will pass all too quickly.

Here’s a little video of the poorly one busting some moves on a happier occasion last weekend to cheer me everyone up on this Monday morning.

Please note: this may seem like a cheap and lazy use of some cute footage of my son on which to hang a blog post. It is. Did I mention he also vomited in my shoe this morning? #heowesme

Springtime, Fully Loaded

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.

Idyllic

I was just sorting through memory cards full of photos that I have yet to organize or do anything with, when I came across this one. I took it on the 8th March at 8 am (The wonders of modern digital photography triumph over my innate forgetfulness.) That means I was on my way to the school bus stop with my son. The simply stunning morning light made me forget the usual morning scurry and sent me dashing back indoors for my camera. (Child abandoned on the street, swinging his rucksack in the air.) Sometimes the beauty of nature really does just stop you in your tracks.

Just as I was wondering how to catalogue this snap and musing on how I might use or share it somewhere, the daily prompt from WordPress popped up in my reader. Idyllic. It seemed perfectly in step with my response to this photo. I clicked through and discovered that the prompt related more specifically to what your ideal community looks like. How it is organized and how community life is structured. What values does the community share?

Then it struck me, this photo shows exactly what my ideal community looks like. It’s a  community based in nature and shaped by nature. A small community but with strong ties. On the horizon you can see the small cluster of houses perched atop the hillside, mirroring our own hamlet, dwarfed by the scale of the mountains behind and the expanse of green stretching between tiny, scattered villages. It could feel lonely but it promotes a depth and strength of connection between neighbours that doesn’t naturally occur in places, such as cities, where you can maintain a lofty self-reliance and independence.

The Spanish refrain goes: ¿Quién es tu hermano? El vecino más cercano’ meaning, your closest family is your nearest neighbour. This is never truer than when you live in a small community in the country. We rely on each other in a myriad of ways, both practically and socially. From borrowing a pint of milk rather than making a 20 minute trip to buy one, to sharing a cup of coffee and a chat on an otherwise solitary day.

Even our water supply (the very staff of life!) is community managed. This means periodic village meetings, the occasional Saturday morning spent clearing brambles on the hillside where the pump-house is or, in times of emergency, days spent chasing and fixing leaks in the pipework. I’ll be honest, sometimes it’s a worry and sometimes it’s a drag but it teaches me a darn sight more about personal and environmental responsibility than paying a quarterly water bill ever did!

So there you have it. My country idyll. Just right for me right now. But what about you? What’s your idea of an idyllic community? And are you lucky enough to already live there?

The local water board in action last summer. That’ll be all of us then!

The Perfect Snow Storm

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.

 

Thrills ‘n’ Spills and Hot Aches

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.

Silent Sunday

The Early Bird

The morning light snapped on the way back from the bus stop. Totally unenhanced. The whole, enormous sky really was this colour.

With Jack starting school last September one of the biggest adjustments we have had to make has been getting up at 7.30 every morning, Monday to Friday. (And, of course, weekends too as Jack’s highly trainable body clock doesn’t switch off just because it’s a Saturday. Dammit.)

It might not sound that harsh’ I know lots of people have much earlier starts, but before this I had carefully structured my life so that I never had to be consistently up before the sun was. I have been self-employed virtually all of my working life and thus had the luxury of managing my own diary. Never taking appointments before 10am and living within walking distance of my work place made for a nicely relaxed start to the working day when I lived in the UK.

A big part of the motivation for moving to Spain for both of us was to leap even further out of the ‘rat race’ and off the hamster wheel of racing to maintain our modern life. We came here to work less, earn less and live a little more. So naturally getting up before the sun didn’t really feature heavily in our plans.

The last few years have thus seen us taking our morning tea anywhere south of 8 a.m. A perfectly civilized time, I’m sure you’ll agree. The sun is also more consistently civilized in its own waking times here in northern Spain – we have none of that summertime 4.30am sunrise nonsense. The earliest sun up, even in the height of summer, is around 7a.m.

Having a baby did of course muck about somewhat with our sleep patterns. Or completely destroy them for a while, if I’m honest. But at least having the luxury of not having to get up and out the door first thing meant that a certain amount of morning time lounging compensated a lot for the night-time tortures.

Truth be told our favourite time of the day since Jack arrived has been the first hour or two, when we would have the luxury of a family lie-in. Cuddles and stories and cups of tea. A delicious, cozy, gentle sliding start into the day.

Alas, the family lie-in is no more. With school came enslavement to the beep of the alarm. Up and at it, there is not a moment to spare in wrestling a small child into readiness for his walk to the bus stop.

There are some compensations for our newly manic mornings however. (Apart from the obvious one of having subsequent child-free hours to get on with stuff.) For example the light can often be outstandingly beautiful at this time of the morning. There’s something special about being outside in it, fully immersed in its glory. It’s definitely good for the soul.

And then last Friday morning, as we slipped out the door into almost total darkness, a very special thing happened. The barn owl that I have long suspected to be lodging in our loft chose that very moment to swoop across our patio (and heads) and demonstrate his clever trick of folding his giant wings in and squeezing through the small hole in our eaves.

After several months of trying to catch him in the act or to discover his bolthole in the attic I finally had my proof that those nightly ‘toowhit-toowoos’ weren’t just in my head, they really were coming from just above it.

The hole in question. Our pussy cat stands guard, back in the autumn.

Good Times, Good People and Goodbyes

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.

Good times with good people.