I caught the bus from San Vicente into Oviedo yesterday. For a round trip of 200 miles, the fare was 17 euros. And it was well worth it. Oviedo, the capital of the Principality of Asturias, is a handsome, well-proportioned, if slightly claustrophobic city. The streets are all lined with buildings at least ten storeys high. You can barely see the sky, let alone any landmarks. It took a long time for me to find my bearings. Most of the central shopping area has been pedestrianised, and is paved with marble the colour of a Spanish dawn. Walking on it in my M and S
loafers produced the most frightful squeaks and squeals!
loafers produced the most frightful squeaks and squeals! Oviedo Cathedral
Having said all of that, the area around the Cathedral is lovely: ancient, narrow streets, lined with restaurants and sidrerias; leading off into little squares, like the Plaza Trasscorales, with its bronze of La Lechera – the milkmaid – and in which, more to the immediate point, was situated the restaurant where I had set my heart to dine on a veritable feast of Asturian specialities. Only two problems: the restaurant didn’t open until 8.00 and the last bus was due to leave at 8.45. So I contented myself with wistfully jotting down the list of things I would have eaten, had circumstances allowed:
Cream of crab soup
Pote – beans, greens, pork and blood pudding
Fabada – the national dish of Asturias – a quite delicious bean and pork stew
Braised boar with potato croquettes
Rice pudding, crepes and pastries
All this for 32 euros, in one of the smartest restaurants in the city.
There is one consolation: I am several pounds lighter than I would have been if I’d got the other side of that lot!
Having said all of that, the area around the Cathedral is lovely: ancient, narrow streets, lined with restaurants and sidrerias; leading off into little squares, like the Plaza Trasscorales, with its bronze of La Lechera – the milkmaid – and in which, more to the immediate point, was situated the restaurant where I had set my heart to dine on a veritable feast of Asturian specialities. Only two problems: the restaurant didn’t open until 8.00 and the last bus was due to leave at 8.45. So I contented myself with wistfully jotting down the list of things I would have eaten, had circumstances allowed:
Cream of crab soup
Pote – beans, greens, pork and blood pudding
Fabada – the national dish of Asturias – a quite delicious bean and pork stew
Braised boar with potato croquettes
Rice pudding, crepes and pastries
All this for 32 euros, in one of the smartest restaurants in the city.
There is one consolation: I am several pounds lighter than I would have been if I’d got the other side of that lot!
The bronze of La Lechera in the Plaza Trascoralles
I followed the tourist trail, to the cathedral, with its 9th century chapel , and then roused myself to climb the seemingly endless hill which leads to two of the most ancient churches in Spain: Santa Maria del Naranco and San Miguel de Lillo, both also dating back to the 9th century. They were worth the climb: both beautifully proportioned in their different ways, and built in a style which I’m told was unique to Asturias. I bought a ticket for 3 euros which entitled me to go inside both churches – except that it didn’t. They both remained firmly locked. It turned out that if I wanted to see inside I would have to wait until a sufficient ‘groupo’ had assembled to make it worth the guide’s while to show us around. He, meanwhile, was having a pee in the hedg
e, and as the commentary would be in Spanish, it frankly didn’t seem worth waiting for.
I followed the tourist trail, to the cathedral, with its 9th century chapel , and then roused myself to climb the seemingly endless hill which leads to two of the most ancient churches in Spain: Santa Maria del Naranco and San Miguel de Lillo, both also dating back to the 9th century. They were worth the climb: both beautifully proportioned in their different ways, and built in a style which I’m told was unique to Asturias. I bought a ticket for 3 euros which entitled me to go inside both churches – except that it didn’t. They both remained firmly locked. It turned out that if I wanted to see inside I would have to wait until a sufficient ‘groupo’ had assembled to make it worth the guide’s while to show us around. He, meanwhile, was having a pee in the hedg
e, and as the commentary would be in Spanish, it frankly didn’t seem worth waiting for.The 9th century church of San Miguel de Lillo, on the mountain overlooking Oviedo
So down the hill I strode, in search of supper. I decided eventually to try one of the many sidrerias in the Calle Gascona. Cider is the Asturias national drink. The locals appear to consume nothing else. Cider-drinking is a ritual conducted with an almost religious solemnity and attention to detail. First is the ‘escanciar’: in your right hand, you hold the uncorked bottle, stretching your arm as high as it will go. In your left, the broad-brimmed glass-beaker, which you hold as low as you can, slightly tilted, so as to maximise the distance between bottle and glass. Then you pour, and if you’re any good at all at it, you pour with the utmost nonchalance, looking up at the sky and whistling a happy tune, confident that years of practice will direct the golden stream unerringly, not merely into the glass, but onto the side of the glass, just below the brim. The idea is that the long drop will maximise oxygenation of the cider, producing a gentle, almost creamy effervescence in the drink.
But that’s only the half of it. Only about half an inch is poured at any one go. The recipient is required (and I use the word advisedly) to drink most of it, and then hurl the last few drops against the side of the bar, off which it will drain into a gutter. This is called the “culin” and the logic this time is that, cider drinking being a group activity, by swilling out the glass with cider, you have disinfected it for the next recipient of the escanciar.
It is, as you can imagine, a picturesque business, which involves the waste of a prodigious amount of perfectly good cider. I would hazard a guess that more cider is poured away in Asturias each year than is consumed in any of the other Celtic nations, with the possible exception of Brittany. It was when I first visited Asturias in 1994, that, with my late and much lamented brother, Chippy, we discovered this extraordinary business. We took to it with some enthusiasm! He was much better at the escanciar than I was, but I did my best to make up for it with the violence of my culin!
That was in typical rough and ready rural sidrerias, whose floors were literally awash with cider. In the posher parts of Oviedo, they have to strike a careful balance. So the barman pours (expertly, of course) your cider, and only the standers-at-the-bar are encouraged to chuck the remnants in the gutter. The place still stank of cider, but it was smart enough to charge some pretty fancy prices. I accompanied my bottle with anchovies, peppers and cabralles cheese – classic Asturian cuisine. The Olde Cider Bar at Newton Abbot this was not!
And thereby hangs a tale. It was visiting Asturias in 1994 and encountering the fierce pride with which they nurtured and protected their regional specialties, like fabada, that gave me the idea of starting Westcountry Cooking, to encourage chefs and restaurateurs to make a point of using our own wonderful ingredients, in dishes that speak as profoundly of the South West as Asturian cooking does of this beautiful region. I like to think that it had a small influence on everything that has happened since.
Apart from one or two thunderstorms, the weather has been hot and sunny. I have been surfing. Three to four feet and clean, is how I think the professionals would describe it.
So down the hill I strode, in search of supper. I decided eventually to try one of the many sidrerias in the Calle Gascona. Cider is the Asturias national drink. The locals appear to consume nothing else. Cider-drinking is a ritual conducted with an almost religious solemnity and attention to detail. First is the ‘escanciar’: in your right hand, you hold the uncorked bottle, stretching your arm as high as it will go. In your left, the broad-brimmed glass-beaker, which you hold as low as you can, slightly tilted, so as to maximise the distance between bottle and glass. Then you pour, and if you’re any good at all at it, you pour with the utmost nonchalance, looking up at the sky and whistling a happy tune, confident that years of practice will direct the golden stream unerringly, not merely into the glass, but onto the side of the glass, just below the brim. The idea is that the long drop will maximise oxygenation of the cider, producing a gentle, almost creamy effervescence in the drink.
But that’s only the half of it. Only about half an inch is poured at any one go. The recipient is required (and I use the word advisedly) to drink most of it, and then hurl the last few drops against the side of the bar, off which it will drain into a gutter. This is called the “culin” and the logic this time is that, cider drinking being a group activity, by swilling out the glass with cider, you have disinfected it for the next recipient of the escanciar.
It is, as you can imagine, a picturesque business, which involves the waste of a prodigious amount of perfectly good cider. I would hazard a guess that more cider is poured away in Asturias each year than is consumed in any of the other Celtic nations, with the possible exception of Brittany. It was when I first visited Asturias in 1994, that, with my late and much lamented brother, Chippy, we discovered this extraordinary business. We took to it with some enthusiasm! He was much better at the escanciar than I was, but I did my best to make up for it with the violence of my culin!
That was in typical rough and ready rural sidrerias, whose floors were literally awash with cider. In the posher parts of Oviedo, they have to strike a careful balance. So the barman pours (expertly, of course) your cider, and only the standers-at-the-bar are encouraged to chuck the remnants in the gutter. The place still stank of cider, but it was smart enough to charge some pretty fancy prices. I accompanied my bottle with anchovies, peppers and cabralles cheese – classic Asturian cuisine. The Olde Cider Bar at Newton Abbot this was not!
And thereby hangs a tale. It was visiting Asturias in 1994 and encountering the fierce pride with which they nurtured and protected their regional specialties, like fabada, that gave me the idea of starting Westcountry Cooking, to encourage chefs and restaurateurs to make a point of using our own wonderful ingredients, in dishes that speak as profoundly of the South West as Asturian cooking does of this beautiful region. I like to think that it had a small influence on everything that has happened since.
Apart from one or two thunderstorms, the weather has been hot and sunny. I have been surfing. Three to four feet and clean, is how I think the professionals would describe it.
The beach at San Vicente in early morning sunshine
On Tuesday morning, I was taken by taxi into Santander to procure Carmen’s temporary number plate. The taxi driver, inevitably, was called Manuel. He had no English and I have no Spanish. We proceeded at a truly frightening speed, Manuel making phone calls to various friends and family, the Spanish definition of 'hands-free' appearing to mean no hands on the steering wheel. He struck me as a sociable soul, who clearly wanted to make conversation with his passenger “Gillsaw”, as he called me. Football came to the rescue. We exchanged the names of Spanish footballers playing for English clubs, accompanied by facial expressions, shakes of the head or thumbs up to indicate approval or otherwise.
Anyway, we secured the number plate and, although it is the wrong colour, I trust it will serve. It is stuck on with parcel tape, which may or may not survive the storm that is blowing in from the Atlantic as I prepare to drive to Santander to catch the ferry for home, with very mixed feelings.
2 comments:
Anthony
you cannot give up now, think of your readers who want to read on into Galicia and remember your Housman
Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:
Hear the drums of morning play;
Hark, the empty highways crying
"Who'll beyond the hills away?"
Towns and countries woo together,
Forelands beacon, belfries call;
Never lad that trod on leather
Lived to feast his heart with all.
Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
Sunlit pallets never thrive;
Morns abed and daylight slumber
Were not meant for man alive.
Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;
Breath's a ware that will not keep.
Up, lad: when the journey's over
There'll be time enough to sleep.
Thank you Essex peasant. It's a great poem, and one I hadn't come across before. And you are quite right. I should have remembered Churchill's motto - which has guided me through most of my life thus far - KBO - Keep Buggering On!!
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