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about it. Greens, squashes, tomatoes, pumpkins and fruit trees tumble into delicious and colourful gardens, like prize-winning exhibits at a horticultural show.
Yet Galicia is not the only province boasting ample rainfall. Another part of this green Kingdom comprises the neighbouring Asturias. This is a place of dramatic mountain and ocean scenery. It is also the focus of our last Latin adventure.
From the capital of Basque country, Bilbao, runs a long but comfortably navigable coastal route East to West. An easy drive from Bilbao airport, the mountainous region of Asturias soon unfolds. An inviting ocean beckons from the right, but don’t neglect the alpine backdrop in preference for the seaside. Los Picos De Europa (The Peaks of Europe), so named by returning sailors glimpsing home, are an enticing, snow-capped antidote to the conventional Spanish holiday. Inland to Cova Donga, and ever upwards on spiralling mountain roads, rewards with stunning views and pristine air. The flora and fauna of Asturias hold many charming surprises – bears and wolves too, although sightings are rare.
Descending to the coast, where sunshine is in more reliable supply, there are myriad opportunities for naturism. Knowing where they are is the challenge. When schooled in the English mindset of propriety and inhibition, one may be pleased (or alarmed) to realise that there’s less of that nonsense here. Nudity, as a considered condition amongst reasonable people, doesn’t need law enforcement, committees and fence posts to define – it’s not illegal, it happens all the time, and the perpetrators are often female.
On Playa Andrin, a few kilometres east of Llaness, we noted one naked couple on this popular family beach, but no one else batted an eye. After a moment’s mental adjustment we ensured that their number promptly doubled.
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We spent the night in Llannes - a fine and historic town. Pressing on west, Ribadesella was another worthwhile visit. Nearby Playa De Vega, mentioned briefly on certain naturist web sites, turned out to be an expansive and flat sandy beach, host to many recreations; from fishing, and fossil hunting, to the piloting of microlight aircraft. Duty dictated that we represent the naturist interest, but we were alone in this regard and I felt mildly envious of the more engaging activities around us.
Continuing west, towards and beyond the Asturian capital, Oviedo, the roads and motorways became heavy going for a time. Industry reared its un-pretty head and my right foot responded accordingly. Many Internet references to naturist beaches around Avilés were left unexplored. However, the sun was low, we needed lodging for the night, and the next day would be our last in Asturias before moving on to Galicia.
Finding an excellent room for 20 Euros and signposts for a nearby naturist retreat put us in fine spirits. Even as night fell we set out to investigate the attractive fishing port of Porto De Vega (unrelated to the previously mentioned Playa De Vega).
To the horizon, in fast fading light, ominous black clouds billowed, promising storms in the Bay of Biscay – and perhaps further on, past France to the south coast of England. Crickets chattered gregariously around us, the atmosphere became electric with anticipation, but the storms kept their distance, and I prayed would remain that way for another day.
They did.
Blue skies and sunshine greeted our eyes as my wife peeled back the curtains. No trace of clouds marred the vista of blue. We made for the beach.
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Playa De Barayo takes a little finding. The signposts are ambiguous but the roads are so few that by process of elimination one soon arrives at a designated parking area. From there the downward amble is circuitous and long but enjoyable.
Barayo comprises a bay of startling beauty and tranquillity. A river of chilled mountain water, brimming with trout, runs into the sea. Grassy marshlands croak contentedly with bird-life and amphibian inhabitants; sand dunes and caves invite relaxation and exploration. And, lest there be any doubt at all that this is an appropriate location for nudity, someone has daubed the words: Playa Nudista on rocks at either end. With
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barely another soul to wave to we set about finding the most comfortable patch for serious sun bathing. I marched this way and that in indecision. My wife found passable comfort wherever she looked and settled for a quiet snooze in the sand.
By afternoon, Playa De Barayo proved difficult to say goodbye to, and for long moments I questioned the necessity. The caves looked deep and accommodating, there was ample firewood (and evidence of past encampments), and I was confident that I could contrive a means of adding succulent trout to the evening’s menu. Yet these things were not to be.
“Look,” my wife suddenly pointed.
High above us an intrepid fellow appeared to be scaling down the sheer face of the cliff. His descent seemed sure-footed and surprisingly rapid. Then we discerned that he had the benefit of a steep path and the remains of a fragile handrail. Within minutes he was at the bottom, shaking twigs from his hair and removing his shoes for a short wade through the icy, trout-infested river, that took him to the beach.
“Buenos días,” he greeted in passing.
“Buenos días,” we echoed.
From that point we needed no reminding. There were adventures to be had, and they all began with a perilous looking climb out of Barayo.
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Carol dressed, crossed the river and made her way up the first rickety steps. I followed behind, burdened by rucksack and weighty daydreams of what might have been, in this veritable Garden of Eden.
Normally approaching the gentlest gradient on all fours, muttering curses and prayers, the gentle art of persuasion usually relies upon a firm hand, or shoulder, to my wife’s rear end. Yet, in this instance, she was propelling herself up a near vertical incline with no assistance at all.
This misplaced and extraordinary confidence owed much to the absence of her glasses. I could not look behind me, or down.
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Each step seemed hewn from crumbling mud and ancient rock, by little people, for tiny feet. They might endure another century or more, I mused, or needed only the punishment of the next Englishman’s size 10s . . . ? - a thought that set my arms flailing madly, until I hugged the cliff and stopped the world from spinning. When I recovered I had to extract each of ten fingers from every crevice, wormhole, clump of grass and shrub root within arm’s reach. I was anchored to the planet with the tenacity of a limpet. Except that something peculiar to male pride took charge the moment I saw my wife had ambled merrily ahead and was close to the top. Compelled by a deep sense of shame I bridged the distance in seconds. Bedraggled and breathless, I clambered to the summit just in time to hear her utter-
“Oh-My-God.”
She had finally looked down. The colour drained from her cheeks.
“Er, yes. . .wonderful view.” I wheezed, manfully.
We left Asturias and the Atlantic coast drenched in sunshine. Heading into Galicia, for the next leg of our trip, I looked forward to the return journey as much as I relished the days ahead. Northern Spain is a wonderful country, but do not imagine that life here is idle and effortless. Property prices are rising steeply, little English is spoken, and the climate can be dull. Yet the opportunities to upgrade the quality of life – not to mention naturism – are all there. Up a mountain, down a valley, or with a sea view, we could find a good home here. Intuition tells me so, and it will fit us perfectly, rather like a comfortable old shoe. Which is as well because, when that day comes, I doubt we’ll trouble to wear much else.
Buenos noches, Amigos
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