Picos de Europa, Spain, August-September 2009 Sandy Reid The Picos de Europa is a range of mountains in the north of Spain, straddling part of the provinces of Cantabria and Asturias. I had considered visiting them for some years, but had postponed going because of uncertainty about the availability of huts (refuges) in the mountains. If not, it would entail sleeping out, which would add to the weight to be carried and detract from the fun, as the huts are an important source of social intercourse. After the trip to Siberia in March 2009, however, I fancied going somewhere warm and decided to investigate the Picos. I found there were indeed huts and planned an itinerary. I booked with Espresso Mundo, 348 Morningside Road, obtaining a return Air France flight to Paris and Bilbao and accommodation for the night, 28 August, of arrival and the night, 12 September, before departure (Spa Husa Jardines de Albia Hotel, San Vicente 6, 48001 Bilbao Vizcaya, which cost £57.50 per night for bed and breakfast. This was fairly central and near the old quarter of the city.). The rate of exchange for the pound had fallen over the past couple of years was almost exactly £1 to 1 Euro, which made items abroad in Europe seem relatively expensive. To brush up my language skills, I enrolled in post-beginners Spanish evening classes in the Institute of Applied Language Studies in Hill Place, Edinburgh and went once per week from early July. In addition I worked through the books and CDs of the Pasos 1 and 2 courses. I rejoined the Austrian Alpine Club, as this has reciprocal rights for use of huts with clubs in other countries, allows reductions in hut charges, acts as indentification and lubricates the social cogwheels by indicating that the member is a bona fide mountaineer. I considered packing the rucksack in the stout destination bag I had on my Siberian trip, but this would have entailed carrying it all the way round the Picos. I therefore placed the rucksack into a disposable plastic black bin liner. I had meant to tie a string round it to keep it in place, but forgot. Gear Redline down sleeping bag, four season: this was probably going to be too warm, but it was difficult to predict the temperature high in the mountains at night. On previous trips in the Pyrenees it was sometimes fairly cold at night. My other bags might not have been sufficient. Bivvy sac: Gortex, for sleeping out and for emergencies. Karramat: cut transversely into three strips and put inside the rucksack: to act as insulation during a bivouac. This is more convenient than carrying it rolled up. Clothing: light long trousers with detachable legs to form shorts; white short trousers; three cotton shirts, thermal vest; ultrafleece thermal shirt; two neckerchiefs; underpants three pairs with three panty liners; baseball cap; thick woollen socks, two pairs; thin undersocks; ordinary socks; North Face trackshoes; Dachstein mitts, balaclava; neck tube. Extra white sunhat, Austrian braces; small towel, soap, toothbrush, toothpaste (tiny tube). I did not pack a razor and did not shave. Socks: two pairs of socks, one thin (Bridgedale) underneath; one thick: these worked fine. Boots: Salomon Contagrip (blue). Stove: Small Trangia alcohol stove with one Dixie. Plastic bowl, metal mug, one spoon. Rucksac: Pod, 55+10 litres. Bottles: plastic, one 1½ litres and one 1 litre, for water; two 600 ml aluminium bottles for alcohol for the stove. Maps: Adrados Ediciones of Picos de Europa: 1. Western Massif (El Cornion); 2. Macizos Central y Oriental, both 1:25,000; photocopies of large scale maps of northern Spain. Guidebooks: Picos de Europa, by Robin Walker; pages torn from Walking in Spain, Lonely Planet. Compass, maps, whistle, torches (two), earplugs (essential gear against others’ snoring in mountain huts); monocular; first aid kit; factor 40 sunblock; sunglasses; sun goggles. Food: four 60 g aliquots of red lentils in plastic bags; small amount of Earl Grey tea; salt; part of a Brillo soap pad. Digital camera: Sony Cybershot 7.2. Reading material: Spanish grammar, phrase book and dictionary; Dostoyevsky’s Notes from the House of the Dead, which was a small volume of closely packed text. It may not seem much like light reading; it was, however, in English translation and not in the original Russian. August, Friday 28 I left home in Edinburgh and took a taxi to Edinburgh Airport. They checked the rucksack all the way through to Bilbao. I first took the 12.10 flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, where it was sunny, 22 degrees, with clear blue sky. We arrived at terminal 2E and with some difficulty I made my way by bus to terminal 2G, some distance away. The security arrangements for the second flight were different from those in Edinburgh: it was not necessary for us to take off our shoes, but we did have to empty our pockets. I do not see why there should be such a difference. I had a 0.5 litre glass of Affligem beer, which was pleasant lager. The second flight was at 18.25 and arrived in Bilbao, Spain, at 20.05. I took the airport bus into town, cost only 1.30 Euros, arriving at 21.30 and took a taxi to the hotel. The driver engaged me in conversation which seemed at first rapid and difficult to understand, but I soon grasped that he was saying he had been in Edinburgh at a rugby match with Ireland not long ago and was able to converse. I was disconcerted to note that it was raining slightly, as the whole point in going to Spain was to get away from poor weather. I checked into the hotel and went out for something to eat and drink. I walked round the corner to a bar. I sampled various sorts of tapas that were on the bar. I had some red wine called Tinto de Vaipiedra, which was a Rioja and cost 3.10 Euros for a glass. I ordered some Tosta de Bacalao, which is toasted cod, with verdura di salas, which was tasty. Also, Miros - 6 Meses Ribera de Puero. I spotted a large tray of olives some way along the bar. As I love olives, I resolved to get at them. As each person adjacent to me left, I managed to shuffle along till I finally stood beside them and scoffed a goodly number. I left at 11.15 pm. August, Saturday 29 I woke at 7.40 am. I had a slight headache, possibly to be construed as a hangover. After breakfast I considered that I was too late to get the 8.30 bus for the next leg of the journey. No doubt if I had rushed I might have, but I spend life at work rushing and was now supposed to be on holiday. I set off to walk to the bus station and on the way went into a small supermarket, where I managed to get a 1.5 litre bottle of alcohol de quemar, which is alcohol for burning. This was for my small stove and was essential. I was pleasantly surprised to get hold of it so easily. Many of the streets were wide boulevards and I thought a lot of the buildings were architecturally quite ornate. At the bus station I found the next few buses were booked up, which I had not anticipated. The next one available was at 3.30 pm and I bought a ticket for this to Orviedo and a ticket from Orviedo to Cangas de Onis, where I proposed to spend the night. I walked to the river, Ría de Bilbao, then to the nearby park, where I dropped into the Museo de Bellas Artes de Bilbao. This contained paintings by Goya, El Greco, and other mainly Spanish artists. I was particularly taken by Sampson and Delilah, Tristan and Isolde, by Eguszquiza, and an evocative one of an exhausted Picador on a horse by (can’t read notes clearly, ?Rudonga), as well as by some of the modern works. I was most impressed by the gallery and enjoyed looking round. I ambled back to the bus station and got the bus on which I had booked a seat. The journey was pleasant. Much of the scenery was limestone, with fine views of the beaches and Atlantic breakers in the Bay of Biscay. I noticed that the bus route passed the road end to Cangas de Onis and wondered if I could have got off and walked. The driver, however, said it was 15 km, although I later found out that it was much less, probably about seven. Anyway, I stayed on the bus till we reached Orviedo, which took altogether five hours. After arriving there I walked to a small café where I had a couple of beers and tostada and boccadillo (sandwich). I then got the bus to Cangas de Onis, which took 90 minutes. I arrived at 11 pm and easily obtained a room in the Hotel de Los Lagos for 53 Euros the night. I notice the locals called it something like “Cang-a d’Oni”. I walked out to a nearby bar for a couple of mineral waters. I saw several sidrerias, which sell cider, but decided not to try any yet, in case of after-effects. Bed at 1 am. August, Sunday 30 Up at 7.40 for breakfast. It transpired that there was a frequent (every 20 minutes or so) bus service to the lakes. I took the 9 am bus (7 Euros) to Llagu de Enol, at an altitude of 1100 meters above sea level. In preparation for walking I put the alcohol de quemar into two 600 ml aluminium bottles that I had taken. It is better to split it in this way, in case one of the bottles leaks. I put each bottles into a plastic bag and placed them one on each side of the bottom of the rucksack. On previous trips I have carried side pockets for the rucksack, so that in the event of leakage the alcohol does not cause damage to other items, but on this occasion I had decided to make do with the one complete sac. I then repacked the rucksack, which did not seem too heavy. I unzipped the legs of my trousers to convert them into shorts and at 10.15, in bright sunshine with clear blue sky and a light heart, set off walking up the track for the first hut, the Refugio Marquís de Villaviciosa. I soon reached the second of the lakes, the Llagu de Ercina, which was beautiful with clear water sparkling in the sunshine. There were lots of cows and bulls with tinkling bells round their necks. On the way I watched a cow try to gore a small dog, which kept dodging its horns. This was interesting, as there have been news items in the UK on such things recently. The path was a slow climb up limestone and was a bit of a slog but posed no difficulties. At 14.00 I reached the hut, which hut was fairly small. The staff were friendly and I booked a bed for the night, with dinner and breakfast and ordered a large sandwich of home-made bread and cheese, which was no doubt the local queso de cabrales, which is goat’s cheese and pungent stuff. Leaving much of the gear in the hut, I set off at 15.30 with a light rucksack to walk up one of the local peaks, called Jultaya, 1940 metres. The terraine at the bottom was difficult, as it consisted of limestone karst, which is often heavy going because of sharp ridges called clints and deep crevices between them. The ridge just before the summit was a little tricky, with a huge drop on the east side, towards the Cares Gorge. I reached the top at 16.45 and admired the fine view of the surrounding peaks. Even here, it was warm in shirt sleeves and short trousers. I descended the ridge and easily returned to the hut by 18.00. From the nature of the limestone scenery I had surmised that there might be an extensive cave system underground and the woman in the refuge confirmed that this was the case. She said that cavers from Oxford University came to the area regularly to explore it and had been there for a month recently. Indeed the fourth deepest pothole in Europe, over 1100 meters, reaching almost to the level of the village Caín, was in this area. The woman unfortunately had a baby that made almost continuous gurgling sounds, which was irritating and required tolerance and gritting of teeth. Evening meal at 8 pm was a paella salad, which was tasty, followed by fried eggs and chips. There was only one other guest staying in the hut. He was a chap from León and I chatted to him for a while. He seemed to find my Spanish sufficiently satisfactory to merit conversing with me in brief bursts. He was walking in the area and planning to return to work next day. After sunset I saw Jupiter and the half moon over the western Picos, but there was some haze and the sky was not all that clear. I turned in at 22.00 hrs. In the dormitory I found my sleeping bag was too warm and I was forced to sleep on top of it. August, Monday 31 Up at 8.30 am. Breakfast was café con leche (milk coffee) and delicious warm home-made bread and marmalade. At 9.30 I set off on the next leg, the descent of the Canal de Trea, a steep gully. I followed paint marks, yellow and red, on the rocks as I walked along a track to the top of the gully. The marks ran out when I was in the gully, which made me a little uneasy about its being the correct one, but there seemed little alternative. As I descended the gully became steeper and rockier, with limestone. Although it was a river bed, there was little evidence of water in it. The guidebook description was correct: it was relentless. In some sections the rocks were too steep to climb down safely and I had to turn them on one side and go down steep grass, sometimes on all fives. As there was often also plenty of scree, this made it all a little precarious, especially as I was carrying a large rucksack. At one point I decided to have some of the bar of chocolate I had placed in the top pocket of the rucksack. I found I could not feel it and then realised it had melted in the direct heat of the sun and was now a bag of liquid. I could not risk opening it and left it, which proved to be a foolish mistake. Further down the gully, it became yet steeper. Some sections, often vertical, were too steep to descend and I had to climb back up some way and traverse off to the side to bypass these. This was demoralising hard work in the heat with a large pack. In the last section I suddenly saw the road below and people walking along it in both directions. I stopped at a lovely little pool, with lots of tadpoles, and recharged by water bottles with the fresh cool water. Unfortunately below this there was a vertical section of about 10 metres and there was no option but to climb back up some 50 metres and go off to the left to bypass this. Finally, I made it to the road. This was a track about two or three metres wide, cut out of the rock, with a drop of 100 to 200 metres down one side to the gurgling river below. The track followed the Cares Gorge, which was about 50-100 metres wide, with cliffs on each side that towered upwards for at least several hundred metres. I followed the track through spectacular scenery, crossing the river several times on high bridges. Finally I reached the village of Caín. As this was at 460 metres, it meant that I had descended 1630 metres that day. I easily got a room with a bath and shower in the one star Hostal La Ruta. I soon discovered to my chagrin that the wrapper of the bar of chocolate in the top pocket of the rucksack had burst and its molten contents had got all over the inside, into the compass, pencil, headtorch, maps, guidebook, labels and sun goggles case and then hardened again. I emptied the pocket and tried to clean everything in hot water. I wiped the chocolate off with pieces of toilet paper and was about to put these into the little bin beside the toilet when I realised what it would look like to the cleaning maid next day. I took care, therefore, to place the chocolate wrapper on the top to make it obvious it was chocolate. In the bar downstairs I considered sampling some cider, but they seemed to sell it only in whole bottle of 750 ml and, as it was 6 % alcohol, I decided not to risk getting a hangover next day and had a beer instead. I found I had cramp in both hands. I wondered if this was due to using my hands a lot to descend the gully, but also felt it might be due to salt depletion, from replacing lost sweat with water. Dinner was pasta, then eggs, ham and chips, with beer and bread. The left hand was by this time quite sore and stiff, with lots of scratches from holding on to prickly vegetation. I noted that the guide book states that you should not stay in the gully to the bottom and should instead go off on the left side, following the red marks, but I saw only a very few pale red marks and even these looked like lichens. It was also not clear whether there was any sort of path out of the gully. I thought the descent was tricky and rather treacherous and was glad not to have to continue it. Bed at 21.30. September, Tuesday 1 Breakfast 8.45: two pieces of crusty white bread and a little jam. The cost for the night with meal and bar was 70 Euros, which at first seemed pricy, but I suppose was not too bad really: room 50, bar 10, dinner 10. I set off to walk along the Cares Gorge (Garganta Cares). The first section was the same as I did yesterday but in reverse, across two bridges over stupendous drops of 100-200 metres in a narrow canyon. The path was fine but one slip meant a fall to one’s death! I passed lots of people coming the other way, especially after a couple of hours. The weather was not great: mist in the high mountains. I found the rucksack heavy. I was carrying 1200 ml of alcohol and 2.5 litres of water in addition to all my clothing and things, as I wore only a few light garments. The path along the gorge led north and then turned eastwards. At the northeast end of the gorge, as it was turning eastwards just short of the village of Poncebos, I crossed the river on a small bridge, El Puente la Haya, and started the ascent of the path called the Sendero de la Reconquista to the village of Bulnes. The track headed south up the Canal de Texy. In places it was only a meter wide, with an obvious vertical drop of 100 meters to the river. So one slip and you’d had it. I made good progress and by 14.30 reached Bulnes, a small village at 650 metres. I easily obtained a room in a small hotel called El Redondin. Here the weather was misty and cool and I became cold, as my shirt, hat, underpants and trousers were all drenched in sweat. So I changed into dry clothes. I ambled to a nearby bar for a couple of glasses of red wine and a bocadillo con quieso de cabrales, which is a sandwich with goat’s cheese, which is strong stuff, well suited to hard mountaineers. Dinner in the small bar, Casa Rafa, of my hotel at 8.30 pm consisted of vegetable soup, then pork and salad and chips with two wines and cost 15 Euros. It was very tasty. Bed at 9.30 pm. September, Wednesday 2 Up for breakfast al fresco at 8.40. I paid for the room, 40 Euros, and at 9.45 set off up a track for Refugio Vega Urriellu. The first section was steep, with a rather slippery wet grassy gully beside a waterfall. This led up a track along a river bed, by which time the going got a bit easier. Fortunately it was in the early morning shade and was cool. In due course I got into a valley, Hou Baju, in the sun and it was quite a toil with the heavy rucksack. The track led into a corrie and there was fortunately a way up to the right via the Canal de Cambureru. Above this I stopped for a rest and some chocolate and a Spanish chap from Santander caught up with me. He spoke good English and we chatted for a while. He gave me some tips and suggestions for a route from the hut. He said his wife was pregnant and had allowed him out on a one day visa. He went on ahead and I set off again more slowly, with my pack. The path now led up a valley called Hou Lluengu over scree, which I was finding was a common feature of the Picos and which was hard going, as the rocks were unstable underfoot. At one point there was a rock wall about three or four metres high to climb and I was finding this a little tricky when the Spanish chap turned up again above me on his way down. He suggested a route to the left and I managed this without too much trouble. He told me that two of the best climbers in Spain were in the hut and preparing to climb a new very hard route on the Naranjo de Bulnes, 2519 metres, a huge rock pinnacle beside the hut, Refugio J D Ubeda, at 1903 metres. They were making a television film about it. I carried on southwards to the hut and obtained a bed for the night. I had a beer and coca cola. Outside the hut there was a cool wind and some cloud but it was sunny. The Naranjo is a most imposing sheer peak of beautiful limestone that rears up 600 metres just above the hut and dominates the nearby landscape. As might be expected, it is a Mecca for rockclimbers. I noticed a number of potentially attractive women, generally marred by being 5-10 kg overweight. A crowd grew to watch some climbers, presumably those the Spanish chap had mentioned. They seemed to have fixed a number of ropes to the rockface and were ascending these using jumars. In the evening I had a slight headache before dinner. This may have been due to a combination of heat and hunger, as meals in Spain were never before 8 pm. I was allocated a place at dinner beside an Irish lad called Sean and his girlfriend, Georgina, who was Italian, from Turin, and dined with them. Dinner was pork and tuna salad. I mentioned that I had been unable to get reception on the mobile phone and Georgina confirmed that she also could not get a signal. Bed at 10 pm. September, Thursday 3 Up at 8 am for breakfast: toast and jam, which was rather dry, and café con leche. I found I had something stuck in my throat. I had swallowed a dispersible aspirin, which I take as an anti-atheroma agent. On this occasion I took it without water and, as I was never far from thirsty, it may have stuck. This may have been the cause of the throat blockage but, whether or not it was, it was foolish of me to have taken it like this. Presumably the pill fizzed away and irritated the mucous membrane. Anyway, the sensation lasted all day and into the next. The weather was a bit iffy. There was dense cloud outside the hut and it would have been difficult to find the route. I hummed and hawed about what to do. I had considered doing a circuit the Spanish chap had recommended and at 10.30 set off up the Canal de la Celada, the gully to the east of the Naranjo, heading southwards. I was interested to note several patches of old snow, although the path bypassed these. I had only two bars of chocolate and no other food. My throat now felt quite sore. At the col, Colla La Celeda, 2227 metres, at the top of the gully I looked at the way ahead and reckoned it was rather a long way to be going with so little food and not feeling terribly well; so I made the decision to retreat to the hut. The cloud had now dispersed and it was warm. I went off to a nearby spot and made some Earl Grey tea, partly as a thirst-quencher and partly to check that the alcohol de quemar would burn satisfactory. I spent some time watching the climbers on the Naranjo through my little monocular. One seemed to be climbing a pitch while two others were suspended near him on ropes, presumably filming him, although I could not see clearly. At 8 pm we had dinner, which was soup, followed by leeks in cheese sauce, which was delicious, followed by mutton stew, also very tasty. By now it was dark and the climbers on the Naranjo were in a cave on the face, with torches. They were descending for the night and in due course turned up in the hut. I was not sure they would relish the chance to meet a Scottish climber and refrained from introducing myself. The pharynx was still sore and I wondered if a viral infection might be pending. September, Friday 4 Up at 8.30 for breakfast of bread and jam, as usual pretty dry. I suspect this hut is popular because of its proximity to the village of Sotres and therefore breakfast is frugal and the service generally a little less personal than in other huts. I ordered a packed lunch and they gave me some slices of bread and ham and a bar of chocolate. The throat was now a good deal better. At 9.45 I set off up the gully east of the Naranjo (Picu Urriellu, as it is called, in Asturian dialect). I walked up the Canal de la Celada as yesterday. Several teams of climbers were ahead on the track. From Colla La Celada could be seen a large crater, called the Hou Tras El Picu. This was an old glacial lake, one of many in the region, all now dry. The track up to the next col, Colla Bonita, was terrible. It was on steep, unstable scree. I managed to move on the rock at the edge for part of it but the track then traversed left over a cliff on steep, unstable scree and soil. I did not like this section one little bit and was relieved when I reached Colla Bonita at 2382 meters. By this time a couple of lads who were behind me caught up. I thought their Spanish was a little hesitant and then heard them chat together in French. Seizing on the hypothesis that they might be French, I switched languages and they responded keenly. It transpired that they were from Paris. We continued together to descend the steep gully on the other side of the col, which was easy enough, with care. We quickly reached the Torre de Las Colladetas at 2456 metres. From here we saw a beautiful corrie, the Hoyacón de Villasobrada. There were patches of snow in it. There were obvious glaciation marks on the limestone rock and an old lake bed, now dry. We continued south over limestone karst with numerous potholes, some pretty deep. We saw lots of chamois (in Spanish, Rebock). One of the French lads asked me what we called it in English and I was happy to reply “chamois”, just to show that English has French loanwords as well as vice versa. We reached Torres de Santiago and then walked south to Coteras Rojas, 2369 metres. We could see far down the valley to the village of Sotres, which was bigger than I had imagined, not that I gave the matter deep thought. Here we parted company, as the other two were descending southeast to the hut at Odriozola, while I was ascending the ridge to the southwest, leading to Collado de La Canalona, 2444m. After I had walked a short distance the cairns I was following ran out and I suddenly thought I must be wildly wrong, but after pouring over the map for some minutes I decided it was correct and I was where I thought I was. I pressed on and after a while some cairns appeared, then an obvious track leading to the Collado. There I met a couple: a woman and a rather odd chap, with a bottle of red wine a quarter full. The man hardly spoke a word and I wondered if he was deaf and dumb or perhaps tipsy, but he seemed to understand me. When I said I was going to Refugio Vega Urriellu he confirmed that the obvious gully I was about to descend was correct. He indicated with his arm that it would be steep. Undaunted, I set off down it but found it was not tricky at all. I made it to the main track leading northwest to the peak called Torre de Los Helados Rojos. Continuing along this track, I saw some people rockclimbing on Torre de Las Coteras Rojos and took some pictures. After some distance, I stopped to eat some of my packed lunch. The couple I had met on the top now caught up with me and the man confirmed that I was on the right track. I also met a Spanish chap going in the opposite direction. He asked me if he could get up to the left and I confirmed that the gully I had come down was easy. He nodded towards the woman with him as if to ask if even she could manage it and I said yes. It is always satisfying to help the locals find their way around in their own country! I walked on to the junction where track 10 to Cabaña Veronica breaks off and at this point I took the right hand track to the col at Helados Rojos at 2344 metres. I quickly ascended the peak of Torre de Los Helados Rojos itself. There was a good track to the top and it was pleasant, despite a little mist. The top was at 2506 m and a little exposed, but there were no difficulties, provided one did not fall off. I returned to the col Helados Rojos and took the obvious traverse to the right in fairly thick mist. There were a series of fixed wire cables covered in plastic. I felt these were perhaps not entirely necessary, as they were too loose to be of much help in the event of a fall, but they did guide the way and there were big drops below. After the traverse there was a descent, still with cables, and I overtook a group of people. By the time I reached the bottom it was still misty. I crossed the Hou Los Boches. Hou is a hole or crater, no doubt formed from a glacial lake which has drained. I have not seen so many of these in the one area before and their shape suggests that glacial lakes generally may be quite deep in the middle. I passed left of Los Campanarios and across terrain well-marked with cairns. There were a few chamois. Although it was not raining, the mist was damp and, remembering certain lessons of the past, I decided to don my cagoule and waterproof trousers before rather than I became wet. The track now went round the right side of Hou Sin Terre and up an easy rocky pitch and through Garganta del Hou Sin Tierre, which is a small ravine. The mist was now quite thick and I was a little guarded about being on the right route, but I checked regularly with a compass bearing and could not see where else I could be but on the right track. As I descended a section I heard a noise which I reckoned must be the generator of the hut. Suddenly I was relieved to see the hut appear out of the mist at 50 metres distance. I had a couple of San Miguel beers and a glass of red wine, which I reckoned I had earned after a long hard day. At dinner at 8 pm I met two chaps, John and Kev, from Derbyshire. They explained that their wives were down the valley in Fuente De and had allowed them out on two day visas to do a bit of rockclimbing on the Naranjo. I asked if the wives were busy knitting but they didn’t take the point and instead said they enjoyed shopping. They were perhaps aged late 60s. One said that the other had spent his honeymoon in Skye back in the 1960s and met up with his climbing buddies there to team up with them to go climbing. How times change! Dinner was soup with noodles and fish (cod), then potato mash and meat, all very tasty. Bed, 10.30 pm. Saturday, September 5 I slept fairly well, with earplugs in to dampen the snoring, which was generally considerable in this hut, as the dormitories were quite full. I got up at 8.15 and had the usual breakfast of dry bread, butter and jam. Today I was planning to have a look at the highest peak in the Picos, Torre de Cerredo (La Torre Cerréu, in Asturian dialect), 2648 metres, with a view to climbing it. I set off at 9 am along trail 3 and up an easy rocky chimney to the Brecha le Los Cazadorres. Then followed a traverse to the left to Corona El Rasul and to Horcada L’Arenara. There I met a Spanish man and his mother and his son. The man spoke reasonable English and pointed me in the right direction, which was to the left, following a bit of trail 3. Then I followed another dotted line on the map, which was tricky, over big drops. I reached the junction leading south from the trail from Refugio J R Lueje. I considered going up Torre de Cerredo but I was not quite sure of the way, was on my own, and heard rocks coming down after being dislodged by a previous party. In addition, the top section is a rock climb and, although only peu difficile, there could be problems if I got off route on my own. I therefore decided not to attempt the ascent. Instead, I ate the rest of yesterday’s packed lunch and made my way along the track and down a gully and ridge to the Refugio Lueje. There I met the Spanish family from Horcada L’Arenara. They had been drinking a bottle of red wine, which I was a little surprised at, as I do not approve of drinking alcohol when still out on the mountains, especially on exposed and potentially dangerous terrain such as in the Picos. When I mentioned my proposed route next day, marked on the map as Route 10, the man told me my intended route was dangerous with a large rucksack. Near Torre Callejo there was an exposed section with a big drop and this required an abseil of around five metres. He said that I would need a rope for this bit, otherwise with a big pack I might topple backwards. He recommended instead a different route which was marked in blue on his map and which I copied in pencil on to mine. In fact this was described in one of my guides, as I would have seen if I had read it properly. They left and I bought a couple of soft drinks as refreshments and scoffed them quickly. I then took the path east from the refuge and easily reached Horcada L’Arenera, which was the route the Spanish family had taken earlier in the day. I got back to the hut safely. I enjoyed seeing rockclimbers hanging around with their gear: friends, nuts and ropes and wished I could have joined some of them for a route. I had a glass of red wine. The woman serving broke the cork but I got it out for her and opened a new bottle, which went down well, although she did not rise to giving me a free drink. Sunday, September 6 Last night was particularly noisy, with several people in the dormitory snoring, sometimes in unison. I was again glad of the earplugs. This is the problem with large dormitories, this one accommodating over thirty people. It is exacerbated by the effect of altitude, as the slightly thinner air makes people breath more deeply than at sea level. I got up at 8 am for the usual dry breakfast. I met the Spanish chap briefly and he said that they were going down to Bulnes, as his son was exhausted after their long walk yesterday and had found the exposure over large drops intimidating. This was hardly surprising. I packed my rucksack and paid, it being 160 Euros, which I felt was not cheap, although it was for four nights with meals and drinks. This was, however, a popular refuge in a rock climbing area to which access was not too difficult. The staff were friendly, particularly an Argentinian lad, who took pleasure in remembering my name, William, from my Austrian Alpine Club card. I set off at 8.50 up the track that I had come down two days before. It was in a southerly direction and a bit of a slog but at least in shade in the early morning. I crossed Hou Sin Terre, east side, and Hou Los Boches, where I met a German lad and his Spanish girlfriend. We climbed the fixed cables, which, he agreed with me, were too loose to be of direct help. We reached the Col at Helados Rojos, 2344 m, and parted company. I walked the short distance to Cabaña Verónica, 2325m. I had a coca cola and the warden gave me directions to Refugio Collado Hermoso. He said follow the red spots and cairns (hijos). He also confirmed immediately that the route I had originally planned via Torre Callejo was too dangerous. I duly set off westwards up a ridge. I found, however, that it was confusing, as there were cairns going off in various directions, but I managed to get directions from other teams I met. I followed a ridge with lots of big cairns but it became obvious that this was leading in the wrong direction up to the left of Hoyos Segros. I therefore broke off and descended a section, which was not too steep but lacked cairns, and was a little concerned that I was clearly off route, but reckoned I could easily retrace my steps if necessary. The limestone clints were very sharp, presumably because this was not a recognised route. Fortunately I soon saw some cairns and reached these without difficulty. I was now back on track and followed the cairns. Even after ascending a short rocky gully I was not quite sure of the way, as another track led downwards, but some other walkers directed me upwards. There were lots of sink holes and big cliffs and in many places a fall would have had fatal consequences. In addition, the rock was rough and sharp and my fingertips became scratched and cut. In due course I reached the col at Torres de Casare, 2374m, where I met two women and a man, who told me that the hut was 1½ hours away. I went down the other side of the pass and followed a track and cairns which contoured the hillside, heading towards the right, round Hoyo de Los Llagus. I finally reached a good track at Las Colladines. I saw lots of yellow marks on some rocks and wondered at first if this was lichen, perhaps of the Xanthoria genus, but after due contemplation concluded that it was a mineral of some sort. The track led along the edge of a cliff and at 4.30 pm I reached the hut, Refugio Diego Mella, otherwise called Collado Hermoso, which means beautiful col. Indeed the hut was in a beautiful location, perched above a gorge and surrounded by magnificent peaks. As I arrived I jokingly cried out “Cerveza!”, whereupon the warden handed me a can of beer, which I immediately sank, followed by another (Mahou, 5.5 % alcohol, from Madrid) and coca cola. I obtained a bed for the night and requested dinner and breakfast, handing over my AAC card. There was a little gadget for crushing cans, which was fun to use. As usual, I put out my boots and socks to dry in the sun. I noted that the altitude marked on the hut wall was 2072 metres and my wrist Suunto altimeter gave it as 2055 meters, which was not bad, since I had not adjusted it for some days. The altimeter was invaluable but so complicated to use that, even with the instruction book, I had not mastered it. In particular, I could not figure out how to measure cumulative ascent. By this time I had a small blister on the lateral aspect of both ankles but they were sore only after a long day’s walking. I snipped the top off the one on the left side with scissors. Several teams of rock climbers, laden with gear, called at the hut. These included several good-looking, athletic, rather scantily clad women. Where are their counterparts in the Scottish mountains? Their rucksacs were laden with ropes, slings, chockstones, friends etc, and I could not help feeling a little envious. In the hut I joined five Spanish walkers from Madrid. We had a splendid salad: rice with mussels, which was very tasty. The main dish was stew with vegetables, also very tasty. There was, as often the case, too much of it. We chatted for a while and my Spanish was up to it, with a struggle. Then they suggested that I join them to go to look at the sunset. We walked up to the col about five minutes above the hut and watched the sun sink over the mountains of the Western Massif. It was beautiful. I then got chatting to some other chaps whom I had heard speaking. From the guttural sound of their dialect I thought they were possibly from Austria or Switzerland but it turned out they were from Belgium and speaking Flemish. They said they had walked up from Fuente De. All in all I reckoned this had been a long hard day with difficult route-finding in one section. Bed, 10 pm. Monday, September 7 I slept fairly well, but as usual the sleeping bag was too hot. I got up at 8 am for breakfast with the Spanish team: coffee, bread and jam, which was a bit better than in the previous refuge. It cost 30 Euros for dinner, bed, breakfast and drinks, which I thought was very reasonable. At 9.30 I set off on the long descent to the village of Cordiñanes. The track starts going down directly below the hut. At first it was very steep but I took it step by step. There were lots of loose pebbles, which made it tricky under foot. The trail then led above some huge drops, where there would have been no chance of surviving a fall. Altogether, with my rucksack, I found the going precarious. It led into a river bed with only a trickle of water, which was the only source I encountered all day. The path then traversed over steep ground, Traviesas de Congosto, but the going got a bit easier and led up to a col, then traversed to another col, then down a wide gully on a good path. This reached a pleasant grassy meadow called Vega de Asotín. From here, the path led into a beech wood. As I had plenty of time, I stopped for a while to brew some Earl Grey tea, using some of the 2½ litres of water I was carrying in my water bottles. The going through the wood was pleasant but the route carried a sting in the tail: the last section round Agujas María del Carmen looked impossible, as it clung to a cliff face over a considerable drop. The path itself was easy, however, although the exposure was all too obvious and a dizzy turn would be a serious disadvantage. At 2.30 pm I reached the village, where I checked into a small hotel called Pensión-Restaurante El Tombo. Some of my clothing, namely socks, trousers, neckerchiefs, had been repeatedly drenched in sweat and then dried out and, even by my standards, smelt pretty foul. So I washed it and hung it out to dry in the hot sun. I walked along the first part of tomorrow’s projected route, which was to lead up a steep gully near the village. I noticed I had slight cramp in the right hand. I was now confident this was due to salt depletion from replacing much lost sweat by cold fluid, namely lemonade, mineral water and beer. Perhaps less water or lemonade might be a good idea. While I was sitting in the bar, looking at maps, four chaps from the Collado Hermoso hut recognised me and started chatting. When I mentioned my planned route for the next couple of days, one of them seemed impressed and reckoned it would be quite difficult, especially the section from Vega Huerta over La Forcadona pass. I had to struggle a bit in Spanish but kept up a discussion on such erudite topics as beer, whisky and Scotland. They eventually left, heading for the coast and beach to go swimming. Dinner was at 9 pm and was pasta, followed by eggs and chips, with a half bottle of red wine, some of which I did not drink. Tuesday, September 8 I woke around 5 am with a feeling of anxiety that I was about to bite off more than I could chew with the projected route. I suppose successive days of walking on tricky terrain over big drops with considerable exposure gets to you. From the description in two guide books, the way up Route 2 from Cordiñanes sounded like a monumental slog and I felt something a bit more pleasurable was called for. I checked the map routes and found another possibility, to take a route from Soto de Valdeón, a nearby village. Indeed, it sounded even pleasant. For the route the day after, the way up to La Forcadona pass sounded tricky, with a rock pitch at the top, but the thing that concerned me was that the section afterwards, the descent of a permanent snow slope, the neverón, was marked on the guide map as dangerous. I had no ice axe, crampons or ski sticks and if the snow was icy, as was likely, it could be treacherous. I therefore decided instead to take the normal walking route from Vega Huerta to the next hut. Somewhat pacified, I went back to sleep and woke in time for breakfast at 8.15. This was bread and honey, which was a change, with café con leche. I dumped my used shirt and underpants in the bin in the room. This may seem a waste, but they were drenched in sweat and were additional weight to be carried, when I had several spares. It cost 47 Euros for dinner, bed, breakfast and drinks at the bar. At 9.30 I set off o walk along the road to Posada de Valdeón, where I bought some chocolate, and then to Soto de Valdeón, altogether about 4 km. The start of route 12, which I was to take, was not at all obvious and I had to ask directions. I got started on a fine path up through some woods, which was pleasantly shaded. Around 11-12 am I heard the church bells from the village pealing, followed by sounds of a piper playing what sounded not unlike Scottish music. I could see a small crowd assembled near the church. A gun went off several times. I have no idea what they were celebrating; possibly some sort of village festival. The route was fairly well marked and emerged from the wood into the sun and continued up through fields and up a scree slope. I finally reached the day’s destination, Vega Huerta, 2000 metres, at 16.30. This was a rather flat, grassy meadow, with the grey limestone mountains of Torre Santa de Castilla towering over it to the north. I easily found the old ruined refuge. There was supposed to be a water supply but it took a little searching to find it. It consisted of a concrete bath with a small tap leading to it. The water from the tap was emerging as a drip and would take some while to gather but, nevertheless, it was welcome. There was a slight wind, perhaps 10 knots, blowing from the west and I found a suitable bivvy site beside a stone wall, which would provide shelter, if needed. A few chamois were trotting around on the boulder fields. I assembled the Trangia stove and boiled some of the water I was carrying to make Earl Grey tea. This was very refreshing. I held the water bottle under the dripping tap and reckon it took half an hour to fill. I then managed to put some rocks in the bath and this held the water bottle, so that I could just leave it to fill. For dinner, I boiled up one of the 60 g aliquots of red lentils I had. They were soft in about half an hour and, with some salt, were quite tasty, even if Cordon Bleu would be an inapt descriptor. I washed the dixie with a small piece of Brillo pad and made more tea, for which I had an insatiable thirst after the day’s exertions. I used the little metal mug I had bought in Omsk on the Siberian trip. I had not previously thought of the risk of plastic implements cracking on the journey and the metal one seemed better. I had in fact a plastic bowl with me too, but did not use it. In good Scout fashion, I managed to get the stove going each time with only one of the waterproof matches I carried. Indeed, I noticed that afterwards the head of one of the matches was only partly burnt. I may have doused it in the alcohol of the stove’s burner after it had lit. I could not resist the temptation to try and use the match again, which I did successfully, which was rather satisfying. This is the only time I have ever managed to use the one match on two separate occasions. I watched the sun gradually set in the west at 8.15 and took photos of a beautiful sunset. For a long time there was a red glow behind the distant Cantabrian hills but this gradually faded. There was no noise, apart from the chamois and the occasional rock falling in the mountains high above. For sleeping, I put the three strips of karramat inside the bivvy sac and laid the sleeping bag on top of them. I put spare clothes as a pillow inside the hood and kept a torch handy. The boots I inverted in case of rain. I stashed away the food, in case of night time predators. I filled both water bottles and also the dixie for tea in the morning. Everything else went inside the rucksack, which stayed outside the bivvy sac. If it had rained, I could have pulled the hood of the bivvy sac over and remained dry. After sunset the temperature dropped somewhat and I got inside the sleeping bag. I lay with my head outside the hood, looking up at the sky. As the light faded, stars appeared. The first bright one overhead was Vega, in the constellation of Lyra. As I was sleeping in the meadow called Vega Huerta, I thought this was apposite. Hercules was unusually evident. The planet Jupiter appeared behind some small rocky peaks. I tried to see its moons with my little monocular but could not, probably because it was low in the sky. The gibbous moon rose, which spoiled much chance of seeing anything interesting in the sky, but later, Gemini and the top two stars of Orion appeared behind some hills. I slept intermittently and later, towards morning, Venus and Saturn rose. There were occasional extraneous noises. The books say that although there are bears in the Picos you are unlikely to see one, but when you are alone and sleeping out, the imagination runs away a little and the prospect that every noise might be a bear has to be resisted mentally. It was bordering on being too warm in my down sleeping bag and perhaps on a future occasion it would be good to sleep with the head into the wind, so that I could open the sleeping bag and let the cool air blow inside. I slept fairly well, however, apart from intervals of wanting to look at the sky. It is a fantastic experience sleeping out like this and far surpasses being in a tent. Wednesday, September 9 I woke at 7.50 to see some chamois on a ridge, silhouetted against the eastern sky, looking towards me. In the valley to the west there was a cloud sea and in the sky overhead a few streaky clouds. The peaks above were beginning to catch the early sunlight, but I did not see the sun rise for some while. It was cosy in the sleeping bag but when I got up it was fresh, although windless. I made a large pot of tea and packed the rucksack. Maybe some of the techniques I’ve been using would be worth writing up: I recently bought a small volume called “The Book of the Bivvy”, by Ronald Turnbull, but it did not mention much of this. At 9.15 I set off along the track to the west northwest. The so-called difficult section north of Agujas Corpus Cristi was easy. There were good holds on the rock, although there were big drops to the other side. It appears that such sections are described as difficult in the guide books, but I found them easy if there were good holds. It is the sections where there are poor handholds or scree or pebbles under foot that I find more difficult. I crossed a scree slope leading up to the La Forcadona pass, which I had decided not to do, and felt a little relieved, as the scree slope looked a mighty slog. The route I was to take was not entirely obvious but eventually I gained the col, called Horcada de Rozas. There I stopped for a drink. I noticed a bashed tin can and put a small rock on top of it to hide it. This was later to be of significance. I descended north round Hou Las Pozas and west of La Torrezuela and across Hou Llaengu. I was following yellow paint marks on rocks and cairns (jitos). I was supposed to be heading generally northwards and noticed once or twice that the direction of the shadows was not quite correct, but I was not too worried, as the scenery was complex and followed a number of cirques and on several times I referred to the map. I came upon a patch of snow and took the opportunity to add some snow to the water in my large plastic bottle. This provided a deliciously fresh drink, in small amounts of course. The top five centimetres of snow was soft but underneath this it was icy, reinforcing the probable wisdom of my decision not to attempt the Forcadona pass route with the snowfield. At 14.30 I was nearing the top of a short uphill section and thinking I must be near the refuge when I met a man aged about fifty. His Spanish was guarded and it soon transpired that he was English and called Michael. When I asked him where he’d come from he said he’d just come down from Horcada de Rozas and had left Vega Huerta about an hour before. As I had left it five hours before, I found this unwelcome news. I quickly ran up the slope to the col and found the small bashed tin can I had left under a rock. Seeing little point in bursting into tears or even swearing, I returned to join Michael and had no option but to join him and retrace my steps. At some point in Hou Llaengu I must have managed to turn round and walk back the way I had come. I suppose with the complexity of the terrain and confusing nature of the cairns and paint marks, it was possible to see how this could have happened, but nevertheless it was disconcerting. I have done this once before in the Scottish Highlands in thick mist, when we reckoned we must have got a compass bearing the wrong way round, but to do it here in good visibility was difficult to understand. In retrospect, some of the small rocky pitches were familiar in reverse, but until it crosses your mind it passes subliminally. Anyway, after an hour and a half we reached Huenteprieta, where some water emerges from a pipe under a rock. This well was marked on the map and I had not been there earlier. We filled our water bottles, as it is important to keep them as full as possible. We then continued north, but the paint marks ceased, although there were some cairns. This was troubling, as the paint marks had been frequent up till this point and one might have expected a few more. Michael suggested they might simply have run out of paint. We checked the map and reckoned we were on route and went up the track following the cairns to reach Collaú Les Merines. (I think the ending aú is a feature of the Asturian dialect of Spanish.) The path was now well-defined and at the col we came across some cows, with little tinkling bells round their necks. We descended the other side in mist, which was pleasantly refreshing after the baking hot sun. In due course we reached Refugio de Vegarredonda, at 1410 metres. We were soaked in sweat and as it was cool in the mist we changed into dry clothes. We obtained bed nights and, as usual, my membership card of the Austrian Alpine Club proved useful and the warden accepted it right away. We bought a beer and lemonade each and made up a large cup of shandy, which was very refreshing. It remained misty outside the hut. Dinner at 8 pm was meat, with salad and crisps and was less inspiring than some of the previous ones I had had. I asked the warden if he had any cider (sidra) but he said not in the mountain refuges. I don’t know if it was not allowed or something. I don’t see why not, as they sell plenty of spirits. Michael and I chatted for a while. It seemed he lived in Leeds in the Headingley area and, as I once lived there, we compared notes. He described himself as a factory worker and said he was involved in making glass objects. He was relatively well-read and had clearly travelled widely on walking trips. He had originally been intending to do the same route as I had over La Forcadona pass, but had missed the track up the scree slope. I reflected on my choice of route: perhaps my concerns about the snow were correct but at least I might not have got lost; anyway, there was no point in crying over spilt milk! Bed at 10 pm. Thursday, September 10 We got up for breakfast at 8 am: toast and jam and coffee, which was fine, if a little dry. I noticed that my urine was still dark, reflecting continuing dehydration. We set off down the track from the hut in good weather with a clear blue sky. Michael was clearly extensively read and we had an interesting chat on Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. We passed meadows with cows and without difficulty by 11 am reached the lake, Lago Enol, where we planned to catch the bus. The sun was by this time quite hot, as we were at lower altitude, namely 1100 metres. There were a lot of cars in the car park and on the road but the traffic attendant informed us that, unfortunately, there were no buses to Cangas de Onis, as the service had stopped two days before. Why the bus service should cease then we could not imagine. I asked at the information kiosk how far it was and they said 24 km. Walking this distance in the heat with large packs on a tarmac road seemed a bit purgatorial. I asked about a taxi. There was, however, a bus parked in the carpark, but it was a tour bus. The woman in the kiosk, asked the driver and he said they were leaving soon and could give us a lift. About 20 minutes later a crowd of respectable elderly Spanish tourists arrived and boarded the bus. We put our rucksacks in the luggage compartment and clambered in and off we went. There were an incredible number of cars coming up the road, presumably as the Lakes are a well-known beauty spot. On the way down the bus stopped at Cavadonga. Here there is a splendid basilica with twin towers and Romanesque arches. Michael and I went inside but there was a religious service going on and we exited fast. The bus set off again and the tour guide explained to the tourists who we were. We were obviously now part of the tourist attraction. Perhaps they had never seen people so scruffy and smelling so awful, although I have been much worse. We next stopped at the Picos de Europa Souvenir Shop, where I had a bocadillo and coca cola. When we reached the bus station at Cangas de Onis they dropped us off. We bought tickets for the next stage of our respective journeys: We were going to Arriondas, from which Michael was heading for Llanes and the beach, while I was to take the railway train to Santander. The journey to Arriondas took all of 10 minutes. We wandered around a little, but it was very hot and the town did not seem very interesting, especially as most of the shops were shut. Michael left on his bus at 3. 30pm and I went off to a cool bar for a beer. The FEVE train to Santander was to leave at 17.12 but was delayed, so that we left at 17.35. It cost 9.49 Euros and was therefore very cheap. The trip along north Cantabria was lovely in a nice summer evening. There were rivers with canoes on their banks, apple trees, woods, beaches with surfers and, to the south, limestone hills. We stopped at every small station and the journey took three hours. We arrived in Santander at 9 pm. I checked into a three star hotel, the Abba Santander, Calderón de la Barca 3, near the station. I walked to a nearby bar for tapas. I tried a cider but it was a small bottle and the woman serving poured it into a glass and whisked away the bottle before I could see the label. Bed at 11 pm. Friday, September 11 Breakfast was Cantabrian: fruit, tortilla, yoghourt, cheese, oil and garlic. I set off to see the sights, starting by exploring the cathedral nearby. There was a confession going on but as I could not think of any sins I had committed I did not volunteer to participate. I failed to find the Prehistory Museum and it turned out it was being moved. I walked along the esplanade and watched lots of men fishing with rods. There was a fine beach but the people’s behaviour suggested that the sea was freezing. I went round the Maritime Museum, which was very interesting. This part of Spain has a rich history of seafaring, both for fishing and for exploring the world in bygone centuries. Then I walked to the Plazo Italiano to see the Casino, which is a fine building in a seaside area architecturally somewhat reminiscent of Brighton. The beaches looked beautiful but were crowded. I noted a Plaza Doctor Fleming, presumably of penicillin fame, but could not find any blurb about him. I stopped in a small bar for Estrella Damm beer in 200 ml measures. The barman kept the glasses in the fridge. I also had some tapas, mainly seafood. A few of locals dropped in for a glass of white wine and tapas. They asked for torilla normal, tortilla jamon or tortilla queso. I wandered past the university, which looks modern and not terribly exciting, although there was an interesting sundial. I noticed that the zebra crossings have a timer so that you can see how many seconds you have to wait till the lights change to green and then to red again. I thought this was quite useful. I came upon a pleasantly sleazy area where quite a few street signs said “Red”. I do not think this implies red light area, as the word for red is rojos, but do not know what it signifies. Perhaps it is a traffic sign. I dropped into a tortilla place, where I enjoyed listening to the locals bantering with one another, but did not join in. I had a couple of portions of tortilla, one with spicy sauce, and resolved to find a recipe and try making them at home some time. The barman did not have any cider. I returned to the hotel and hired time on the internet connection for 5 Euros. This allowed me to check my email. I decided that I had just about done Santander and so I bought a bus ticket for Bilbao next day at 11 am. I then walked to Calle Jesús, where I came upon a tent in which an Asturian sidra festival was in full swing. This was manna from heaven and too good to miss. They have a special traditional technique for pouring the cider: they put weight on to the left foot, hold the glass as low as possible and the bottle as high as possible with outstretched arm and pour it into the glass. Obviously this requires practice so as not to spill much of it. I presume the reason for this is to give the drink some fizz. I had three ciders, called Eva, 4.1 %, apparently typical of Asturias. One of the attendants, who looked like the boss, saw me writing down the name of the cider and passed me his card (Llagar Sidreria, Cabaron, Naves de Llanes; Janinto Vela Carriles, tel 985 407 550). I also tried some of their red wine, which was a little chewy, as they say. I sampled two chorizos, which were tasty. It was good fun and I had to force myself to leave for bed at 11.30 pm. Saturday, September 12 Breakfast at 8.15 was with oil and garlic, to try the local fare, and was super. The hotel bill was 212 Euros for two nights bed and breakfast. I took the 11 am bus to Bilbao. This took 90 minutes, comparing favourably with the train, which took 2 ¾ hours. We arrived at 12.30. The Spanish girl in the seat next to me started chatting. She was from Toledo, near Madrid, and was visiting Bilbao for the first time. I was able to give her directions to the Guggenheim and a special recommendation to visit the Museo de Bellas Artes but did not feel up to offering her a guided tour of the city. It would have been presumptious to suppose that not all the pheromones from the mountains had been washed off. I walked to my hotel, where I seemed to have the same room as before. I left my rucksack, of course, and walked to the Guggenheim, which was only a few minutes away. I thought the building was splendid, but was perhaps less impressed by the contents, which seemed a little eclectic. As with many such museums, there was a lot to take in in a short time. At 3.30 I left and walked to the old quarter, the Casco Viejo. This consists of various narrow old streets and some churches, although I did not see many obviously fine bars. I crossed the river, the Ría de Bilbao, and had a beer at 5.20. Later, in the evening, I returned to the old town and found a couple of bars. In one, Victor Montes, I had some cider, called abonza sidra, 6 %, but mostly drank red wine and had a variety of the fantastic tapas on offer: cod, gorgonzola, paté. It was fairly busy and I was not surprised to find out later that it was recommended in the Lonely Planet tourist guide. In once of the squares a chess championship competition was in progress and the place was full of aficionados and commentators. It was obviously quite a high-powered affair and, as it was in Spanish, I found it too hard to follow, although I might well have struggled in English too. Bed 11.30 pm. Sunday, September 13 Up at 8.15 for breakfast. I checked out and left the rucksack in reception. I walked to the Plaza del Toro, the bullring, which was closed. I then walked to the Museo de Bellas Artes. I wanted to buy a guide, as I had refrained on my previous visit, not wanting to carry it round the mountains. I decided while I was there to go round the gallery again and enjoyed it once more. I returned to the hotel, collected the rucksack, called in at a bar for tapas and beer, and walked to the bus station. The airport buses ran every 20 minutes and cost 1.30 Euros. I took the 1.40 pm bus. As on the outward flight, I wrapped my rucksack in a black plastic bin liner to protect it and to see if the bag would stand the journey. I checked the rucksack all the way through to Edinburgh. The 15.40 plane to Paris was on time. In Charles de Gaulle airport I considered buying a bottle of cognac, but they were very expensive and I reckoned I could get some much cheaper at home. For comparison, malt whisky was likewise expensive. I finished reading “House of the Dead”, which I greatly enjoyed, if that is the correct word for such a book. The 20.25 flight to Edinburgh was on time and my rucksack turned up with the plastic bag remarkably intact. It is useful for future reference to note that one can protect the rucksack straps by using a disposable bag, although it would probably be advisable to wrap a strap or two or even string round it. I took a taxi home, arriving at 10 pm. Comments Problems of the Picos Lack of water: there are few large rivers and water has to be carried. Route finding: maps are not quite right; markings sometimes lacking or too many Routes are tricky and exposure is often considerable Summary I thought this was a great trip. It was taxing physically, carrying a relatively heavy rucksack in hot weather over rough terrain. Access to the mountains from the cities was a little time-consuming, but I think it was right to use public transport rather than hire a car. I might consider going back to rock climb, but perhaps not for walking. The sleeping bag was too warm and heavy and something lighter would have sufficed. I carried too much alcohol de quemar: 600 ml would have been enough. The water was, of course, heavy, but there was no alternative to carrying it. I never used the towel or soap and they were perhaps unnecessary weight. Once home, I had to spend more time scraping the chocolate off the torch and other things and cleaning the rucksack pocket by filling it with soapy boiling water. Knowledge of even basic Spanish was most definitely useful, as relatively few people spoke to me in English and even they seemed to have fairly limited conversation. In terms of walking, however, my route covered most of the Picos and from that point of view these mountains perhaps belong in the category “been there, done that.”