Hiking
in Spain's Picos de Europa Mountains
By Alan Wechsler in the Wall Street Journal
There's nothing difficult about drinking sidra—Spanish hard apple cider—in the
Picos de Europa, a towering mountain range in Northern Spain. The trick is in
the pouring.
In one hand, you hold your cup around knee
level. With the other, you raise the bottle as high as possible, letting the
cider cascade into your glass. Or, in my case, onto the floor.
The purpose of these alcoholic acrobatics is
to "crack" the flavor of the drink through aeration. But I thought
the sidra tasted fine without the plunge. Better than fine—cloudy, earthy and
mildly bitter, it bears little resemblance to the drink we call hard cider in
the U.S. Sidra is a quintessential taste of northern Spain, which is exactly
what my girlfriend, Barbara, and I were looking for after two weeks in the
well-trodden cities of Barcelona, Seville, Granada and Toledo.
The Lowdown: Picos de Europa, Spain
Getting There: The easiest way to reach the Picos de Europa is by car. If
you're renting, make a reservation in advance. Plan on a six- or seven-hour
drive from Madrid, and expect to get lost at some point.
Staying There: In Potes, Casa Cayo has large rooms overlooking a river, and an
excellent restaurant (from about $70 a
night, casacayo.com ). In
Arenas de Cabrales, the modern Hotel Picos de Europa is down the street from many
cheap and tasty cafes and siderías (from
about $70 a night, hotelpicosdeuropa.com
).
Eating There: Casa Cayo's bustling, slightly formal restaurant looks out over
the river; dishes include suckling pig, leg of lamb, sweetbreads and local
peppers with goat cheese. Nearby Asador Llorente is more relaxed. In Arenas de
Cabrales, restaurants tend to be cafe-style. Cerveceria La Xana offers local
fare; some of the cheeses it serves are made a few hundred yards away. Sidra is
available everywhere.
Hiking There: Most English-language guidebooks on Spain provide basic
information on popular hikes in the Picos; trailheads are well marked, and
routes easy to follow. For longer treks, local maps and guidebooks are
available, but few are in English. A number of tour companies offer multiday
hiking trips to the Picos, good options for the less intrepid.
The Picos de Europa
("Peaks of Europe") are relatively unknown in America—and that's a
pity. The mountain range, located just a few miles from Spain's northern coast,
occupies less land than New York City yet contains some of the most rugged
terrain on the Iberian Peninsula. The rocky limestone peaks and tiny villages
below them are as breathtaking as anything you might find in the Alps,
Dolomites or Pyrenees. The grandest mountain in the Picos, Naranjo de Bulnes,
is an 8,264-foot-tall monster with vertical stone walls, tempting only for
experienced rock-climbers. Surrounding it is a well-marked network of less-intimidating
trails; travelers can easily spend weeks trekking from one quaint hamlet to the
next.
While we didn't have
enough time for backpacking, we were able to do three days of day-hikes, riding
the cable car at Fuente De and exploring the dramatic Cares Gorge, feasting on
local cheese and sausage along the way.
There's scant public
transportation to the Picos, so we rented a car in Madrid, a half-day's travel
to the south. The driving proved to be more challenging than the hiking.
Spanish roads are well-marked and easy to follow—until you reach a town. Then
the highway turns into a city street, which splits and splits again, and goes
through several roundabouts to ensure that your confusion is complete.
("Donde esta la autopista?" is what to ask should you find yourself
in similar circumstances.)
The stress that came
with repeatedly getting lost fell away when we first saw the pale peaks of the
Picos, which rose from the dusty flatlands with ever-increasing majesty. But we
soon realized that we were not, as the map seemed to indicate, an hour from the
village of Potes, where we planned to spend the night. With twists, turns,
tunnels and a mountain pass several thousand feet high, the drive took most of
the evening. By the time we arrived, the hotel had given away our reservation.
Potes, which dates
back to the eighth century, is built in stone around the shallow Rio Quiviesa.
Elegant arched bridges cross the river; a cobblestone footpath runs along its
banks. Century-old buildings decorated with rose-filled flowerboxes overlook
the water. With the fresh mountain air completing the scene, it's hard to
imagine a more pleasant place to be.
Less than pleasant was
the backup hotel we wound up in that first night—our cramped room overlooked a
noisy bar, and the lumpy bed seemed at one with the local topography. We
drowned our sorrows with a little sidra at a tavern down the street
We were up early the
next morning, eager to get outdoors. Our Lonely Planet guidebook recommended
several Picos hikes, including one near the hamlet of Fuente De, home to a
cable car that ascends a 2,500-foot cliff in four minutes. There was no line at
9 a.m.; we paid the 10-euro fare and boarded the car, which climbed at such a
steep pitch, it felt as if we were riding an elevator.
It was mid-June, but
the top of the ridge was covered with snow fields; a number of hikers carried
crampons and ice axes. With the bright sunshine, we were warm enough in
T-shirts and shorts. The hike back down and around to our car was an easy six
miles, but it took much of the day as we lingered over the views, followed
side-trails, watched alpinists ascend to the horizon. We passed tall
wildflowers and herds of cattle and sheep. Eventually, the trail led through
the woods and skirted the base of the mountain to return us to the bottom of
the cable car.
Happily, a room at our
original and much nicer hotel, Casa Cayo, had opened up. Our new quarters were
large and furnished with dark wood furniture; we had a view of the river. After
a dinner of chicken, pasta and sangria, we fell asleep with a breeze coming
through the open window.
The following day, we
drove to Arenas de Cabrales, a mountain town just a few miles from the area's
most famous hike, the Cares Gorge. The gorge is a gash in the mountains several
thousand feet deep. A path a few feet wide, originally built to service an old
hydroelectric sluiceway, traverses its length, connecting the communities of
Poncebos and Cain at each end. The route follows the contours of the canyon, at
times a thousand feet above the river. There is no guard rail.
After a steep initial
climb, the trail was fairly level and smooth enough, although there was no
shelter from the hot afternoon sun. It's a popular route, and we passed
hundreds of hikers as we headed deeper into the canyon.
Halfway through the
gorge, we ran into a gang of wild mountain goats, who almost seemed to be lying
in wait for us. Barbara offered them an apple core from her bag. I pointed out
that such feedings were illegal and had probably habitualized the goats to
humans in the first place. Then the biggest goat headed right toward me.
He was a good three
feet high, tan and black and sporting a pair of sharp horns. Did he want food?
Was he guarding his turf? I eyed the 500-foot drop behind me, and wondered how
much force a charging goat could generate. Barbara took out her camera.
The goat raised his
mouth as if to bite. Then he stopped in front of me and began to lick my sweaty
arm.
"I thought you
weren't supposed to feed them," Barbara said.
"Very
funny."
Back in Arenas de
Cabrales, we had the town seemingly to ourselves on that Sunday evening. We
wandered down the main street to a sidería and sat at an outdoor table.
I ordered some cider; the waitress brought us a green bottle with no label, and
a squat plastic barrel over which to pour. At other tables, locals expertly
filled their glasses from great heights, like Turkish waiters pouring tea.
We shared a cheese
platter, which included several versions of local sheep and goat cheeses, as
well as the region's famous Cabrales blue cheese. I added a plate of chorizo;
Barbara saved her appetite for dessert—flan-like tocinillo de cielo ("heaven's
little pig").
The third day's
excursion was to Bulnes, one of the most remote villages in Spain, named for
the area's highest peak. It has a mere 20 residents, and until a funicular was
tunneled through the rock a few years ago, the only way to reach Bulnes was on
foot or donkey. We skipped the ride in favor of hiking up a steep, foggy
valley. When we arrived after a two-hour walk, the village seemed desolate. We
wandered past pastures and barns, nodding to a lone farmer, and paused at a
small cafe.
According to our map,
it was a three-hour march uphill to Naranjo de Bulnes peak. Several other
routes headed deeper into the mountains. A misty rain fell, a slight breeze
crept up and the urge to explore was as thick as the air. But first, perhaps,
one last bottle of sidra.
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