So
after settling into Spanish ways we headed towards the mountains. We
had glimpsed the jagged profiles of the Picos de Europa last year and
they are also visible from Santander.
We stopped off
first on the way at Santillana del Mar, a delightful little town.
This seems to have been prosperous in the 13th century, but nothing
much has happened since, judging by the many early Gothic buildings
that survive, possibly because it is no longer ‘by the sea’.
Claimed to be the prettiest village in Spain, it’s a popular
tourist haunt.
Just by the town
is the cave of Altamira, which has some of the oldest known European
art, dating back to the old stone age, by some of the earliest modern
humans, up to 20,000 years ago. They lived in the cave mouth and
made large numbers of lively artworks, mostly of the animals they
hunted. The cave, now a world heritage site, was deteriorating due
to visitors, and so an exact replica has been built of part of them,
which we visited, along with its excellent museum.
A real privilege
to see this: obviously skilled artists, they used bulges in the rocks
to give 3D enhancement to their works. There are lively images of
bulls, deer and other species, more abstract pictures, and even the
painted outlines of the artists’ hands. An amazing survival. This
was not some first time dabbling: much of it it is the work of
skilled artists, and you realise that their life must have been
filled with art, on skins or wood or other lost materials.
From there, we
continued to the Cantabrian/Asturian border then turned inland
through increasingly remote towns, rising up to our destination in
the Picos de Europa. The countryside is almost Alpine: green and
fresh everywhere, buildings with wide overhanging snow catcher roofs,
and herds of cows with bells around their necks.
Into this
landscape a big new road had been inserted, which barely touches the
ground, flying across valleys on bridges and viaducts then plunging
through mountains in many tunnels. Throughout Spain, it seems, the
infrastructure is constantly upgraded: yet the roads are almost
empty, a joy to drive on.
The final stretch
winds up and up to Fuente De, just two hotels and a cable car station
almost surrounded by the high peaks. The parador itself is a fairly
modern, but very welcoming building, with another good restaurant
serving a local cuisine, brought out by two very friendly and
efficient middle aged ladies. We were beginning to understand the
strong loyalties the people of Spain have to their own regions and
traditions.
The weather was
dramatic, with clouds pouring fast across the mountain ridge from the
ocean. Next morning I took the first cable car up to the ridge,
through the drizzle and disappearing through a cloud layer. The car
was filled with mad mountain bikers who apparently intended to ride
the bare rock ridges for miles. The top is bleak, raw granite, with
hardly a blade of grass, but with fantastic views of the wild
mountain peaks and the huddled green valley far below, glimpsed
between rolling clouds. Two golden eagles wheeled effortlessly
overhead as the bikers set off grimly determined into the driving
rain.
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