Bloody typical! You drive completely unscathed for 600 miles through flood, tempest, mad Polish lorry drivers, umpteen peages and even an inspection by the Spanish border police; then, as you’re inching towards your selected pitch among the pine trees – crunch! The hem of Carmen’s rather voluminous skirt had become entangled with a low-lying, jutting out railway sleeper, with predictable and doubtless expensive results. I cannot now open the side door, but she is at least still driveable.
Or she would be, if it wasn’t for the other little problem that I detected, when I came to get my bike down from the rack at the back. Where the rear number plate should have been was a blank, grey space. The plate had been there when I left my overnight campsite at Castets, a few miles north of Bayonne, no doubt about it. But somewhere in the ensuing 220 miles it had evidently been shaken, or possibly flushed, from its moorings, by the bumpy Spanish roads or the incessant deluge. I retraced the last few miles between here and Comillas, where the road had been particularly bumpy, but to no avail. So I rang NFU Mutual International Rescue (cue Thunderbirds theme music) and got, not Virgil or Lady Penelope but a rather baffled French woman, to whom I explained my predicament. I am still awaiting her call back.
Still, there could be worse places to be marooned. San Vicente de la Barquera, on the coast about 35 miles west of Santander, isn’t quite in Asturias, but it is a very handsome town, with two fine bridges and a magnificent sixteenth century ducal palace. I am looking across the estuary at it now, with the houses of the town clustered at its feet and the Picos de Europa behind it in the distance (in truth, that last bit is poetic licence, because although I know that the Picos are indeed somewhere out there in the distanc
e behind the Palace, I can’t actually see them on account of the low cloud and heavy rain!)
Or she would be, if it wasn’t for the other little problem that I detected, when I came to get my bike down from the rack at the back. Where the rear number plate should have been was a blank, grey space. The plate had been there when I left my overnight campsite at Castets, a few miles north of Bayonne, no doubt about it. But somewhere in the ensuing 220 miles it had evidently been shaken, or possibly flushed, from its moorings, by the bumpy Spanish roads or the incessant deluge. I retraced the last few miles between here and Comillas, where the road had been particularly bumpy, but to no avail. So I rang NFU Mutual International Rescue (cue Thunderbirds theme music) and got, not Virgil or Lady Penelope but a rather baffled French woman, to whom I explained my predicament. I am still awaiting her call back.
Still, there could be worse places to be marooned. San Vicente de la Barquera, on the coast about 35 miles west of Santander, isn’t quite in Asturias, but it is a very handsome town, with two fine bridges and a magnificent sixteenth century ducal palace. I am looking across the estuary at it now, with the houses of the town clustered at its feet and the Picos de Europa behind it in the distance (in truth, that last bit is poetic licence, because although I know that the Picos are indeed somewhere out there in the distanc
e behind the Palace, I can’t actually see them on account of the low cloud and heavy rain!) View from the campsite - San Vicente de la Barquera, with the Picos in the background
However, it has to be said that after my twin misfortunes I wasn’t really in the mood to enjoy the series of explosions, accompanied by air-raid sirens, which emanated from the town’s lofty fortress. It would appear that some sort of fiesta is taking place. Mr Grumpy wishes them joy, although he won't be amused if the amplified striking of the town clock goes on throughout the night!
Asturias and Galicia are the odd ones out in the co-called “League of Celtic Nations” in that their Celtic languages have not survived. As far as I can gather (and I stand to be corrected) their claim to be Celtic rests on the North-West coast being the final refuge of the Celtic Iberians, when the Romans finally conquered the peninsula in about 200 BC. Somehow or another they clung to the coastal fringe of Northern Spain, and there they have remained, cut off from the rest of the country by the Picos and other formidable mountain ranges, with their own very distinctive customs, cu
ltures, cuisines – and climate, which tends to be sunny in the morning and wet in the afternoon.
However, it has to be said that after my twin misfortunes I wasn’t really in the mood to enjoy the series of explosions, accompanied by air-raid sirens, which emanated from the town’s lofty fortress. It would appear that some sort of fiesta is taking place. Mr Grumpy wishes them joy, although he won't be amused if the amplified striking of the town clock goes on throughout the night!
Asturias and Galicia are the odd ones out in the co-called “League of Celtic Nations” in that their Celtic languages have not survived. As far as I can gather (and I stand to be corrected) their claim to be Celtic rests on the North-West coast being the final refuge of the Celtic Iberians, when the Romans finally conquered the peninsula in about 200 BC. Somehow or another they clung to the coastal fringe of Northern Spain, and there they have remained, cut off from the rest of the country by the Picos and other formidable mountain ranges, with their own very distinctive customs, cu
ltures, cuisines – and climate, which tends to be sunny in the morning and wet in the afternoon. San Vicente at night - shame you can't hear the music
Legend has it that as the Romans pushed ever further north and west through Spain, some of the native Celts took to the sea, and ended up in Ireland, possibly as the Fir Bolg, or whoever it was who built Dun Aenghus and similar remarkable stone forts, or possibly just as a smattering of settlers, cast ashore on a distant land. I think I tend towards the latter.
Of connections between Celtic Northern Spain and Cornwall, I could find no trace, until my mother (learned lady that she is) recalled some lines from Milton’s Lycidas, in which the poet mourns the death of his friend, drowned in the Irish Sea, and wonders where his bones might have been carried:
“Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold.”
Bellerus is an old word for Cornwall, the Mount is St. Michael’s, between which and the Spanish ports of ‘Namancos and Bayona’s hold’, there is nothing but open sea. Even in the sixteenth century, it would seem to have been accepted that the Celtic nations looked to each other, in every sense.
I bought myself a splendid pork chop in San Vicente this evening, and am feeling slightly more mellow, having consumed it with local beans and carrots. But it has still been a pretty rotten day.
Legend has it that as the Romans pushed ever further north and west through Spain, some of the native Celts took to the sea, and ended up in Ireland, possibly as the Fir Bolg, or whoever it was who built Dun Aenghus and similar remarkable stone forts, or possibly just as a smattering of settlers, cast ashore on a distant land. I think I tend towards the latter.
Of connections between Celtic Northern Spain and Cornwall, I could find no trace, until my mother (learned lady that she is) recalled some lines from Milton’s Lycidas, in which the poet mourns the death of his friend, drowned in the Irish Sea, and wonders where his bones might have been carried:
“Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold.”
Bellerus is an old word for Cornwall, the Mount is St. Michael’s, between which and the Spanish ports of ‘Namancos and Bayona’s hold’, there is nothing but open sea. Even in the sixteenth century, it would seem to have been accepted that the Celtic nations looked to each other, in every sense.
I bought myself a splendid pork chop in San Vicente this evening, and am feeling slightly more mellow, having consumed it with local beans and carrots. But it has still been a pretty rotten day.
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