The lady would have said. But 'tis not so.
In distant lands, it may be warm, not hot,
Or tainted with the tang of bitter beans
Unpalatable. But here in Spain where brash
And brass machines do hiss and spurt
The livelong day, certes, the brew they spout
Is bold and strong and hot, and sans pareil.
It was easy to leave the hotel at the crack of dawn, for the days grow shorter, and we are into October now. The sun lit up the hills as I walked, and there was a softness in the air, silent for the most part, for the birds seemed to have gone, or found their mate, or met their fate, and weren't singing. But occasionally an avian shriek shattered the silence or a chattering of sparrows lighted on a neighbouring hedge, or a magpie, thin and long-tailed, not the fat Australian namesake, fluttered away as I approached. I walked through apple orchards, the overhanging branches already picked clean by passers by. To the left were the mountains which I I'll have to cross if I walk the Primitivo: to the right was the sea.
I have been vacillating over whether to continue on the Norte, or take the Primitivo, a path through the mountains, more beautiful, but more difficult with long climbs, and I must make up my mind, for the path divides in a day or so. Many of the people I have been walking with are choosing the Primitivo, but this morning I was walking with an Italian who told me that the mountains would be too difficult for him. Now he was young and fit, so now I am leaning towards the Norte. Besides, rain is forecast, and I don't fancy walking in the rain in the mountains. After ten kilometres I arrived at Ribadesella.
After last night's supper, a thin slice of ham sandwiched between two crusts, and breakfast, a few cakes and a thermos of cold coffee, I decided to treat myself to the menu del dia. I was assured that my choice for the first course was typical of the region: a pile of beans in sauce, probably the ones I have seen climbing up the corn stalks, and on the side an assortment of sausages including black pud. My second was fairly typical as well, probably typical all over Europe, what the French would call steak frites. And the wine, a young but bonny Tempranillo. And I was serenaded by a carillon on the nearby church playing immelodious hymns.
I decided to linger a little in Ribadesella, take a tour of the famous caves with their prehistoric paintings, and then head off for the hostel at San Esteban de Leces, five kilometres further on. As I walked across the bridge, the tide was out, exposing a graveyard of ancient boat skeletons. These two lay side by side like man and wife.
The Tito Bustillo Caves (named after their discoverer) extend perhaps 400 yards into the hill, and the inner parts with the paintings were found only in 1968. The paintings, deer, horses, bison and another animals, are deep, perhaps 400 yards,into the hill. I didn't benefit from the guided tour in Spanish, but just seeing these paintings in ochre and charcoal, from 18,000 to 20,000years ago, was a memorable experience. No photo, of course.
At five o'clock, I left for the albergue just five kilometres out of time. Today was an easy day.
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