Lena

The bagpipe hits you first. Not flamenco guitar, not castanets – a proper Asturian gaita droning across the valley as you step off the train at Pola de Lena. Thirty minutes south of Oviedo, and you've landed somewhere that feels more Welsh Wales than Costa del Sol. The air's damp, the mountains loom, and the locals are already sizing you up as that rare specimen: a foreigner who took a wrong turn off the cider trail.

The Valley That Time Misplaced

Lena stretches along the river valley like a string of pearls someone's forgotten to polish. Pola de Lena, the municipal centre, houses barely 5,000 souls – though on market day it feels like twice that. The rest scatter across hillside villages with names that twist your tongue: Busdongo, Tuilla, Villallana. Each cluster of stone houses clings to slopes dense with chestnut and beech, the colours shifting from spring's fresh lime to autumn's copper pennies.

This isn't postcard Spain. It's better. The A-66 motorway shoots past, but nobody stops unless they've business here. Miners' terraces march up hillsides, their uniform rows recalling a time when coal was king and the valley hummed to the rhythm of shift whistles. Those days are gone – the last pit closed decades back – yet the infrastructure remains. Rusting headframes stand like industrial megaliths, and you'll spot brick chimneys poking through woodland that long since reclaimed spoil heaps.

Santa Cristina's Nine-Century Standoff

Nine kilometres up a winding track, Santa Cristina de Lena perches on its ridge like it's been arguing with gravity since 850 AD. The pre-Romanesque church – now UNESCO-listed – isn't pretty in any conventional sense. It's severe, functional, built by folk who valued keeping the rain out over architectural flourishes. Yet step inside and the ninth century snaps into focus: stone latticework filtering light, an iconostasis that predates the Reconquista, carvings worn smooth by forty generations of valley fingers.

Access requires planning. You can't simply rock up – the regional government controls entry, with daily caps that fill fast during summer weekends. Book online through the Principado's portal, or risk a wasted journey. The final approach involves leaving your car at the barrier and walking ten minutes uphill. Wear proper shoes; Spanish grannies will overtake you in sandals, but there's no shame in being sensible.

The payoff comes when you emerge onto the escarpment. The valley spreads below like a green patchwork, the river glinting silver through meadows where brown cows graze between medieval field boundaries. On clear days you can trace the old mining railway westward, its embankment now a walking trail through recovering industrial wasteland.

Pola de Lena: Market Day and Other Realities

Pola itself won't feature in any glossy Spanish tourism brochures. The centre's a functional mix of 1960s apartment blocks and older houses with glass-fronted balconies. Under the covered market, Victor's been selling cabrales cheese for thirty years. His blue-veined wheels pack a punch that makes Stilton seem timid – try a sliver before committing to a wedge that'll perfume your luggage for the flight home.

Friday morning market draws farmers from surrounding villages. They'll offer eggs still warm from the hen, honey so local you could probably walk to the bees' hive, and chorizo hung in family attics since last autumn's matanza. Prices hover around €3-4 for a decent cheese portion, less than you'd pay for a London coffee.

The town's rhythm follows Spanish time, but relaxed. Shops shut 2-5pm – yes, even the supermarket. Lunch happens at 3pm, dinner rarely before 9.30pm. Several bars serve menú del día for €12-15: three courses, wine included. Try La Nueva for proper home cooking – their fabada (bean and pork stew) could fuel a morning's hiking, though it'll test your waistband.

Heights, Hikes and Horizontal Rain

Lena's relationship with altitude is complicated. The valley floor sits 300 metres above sea level – pleasant enough year-round. But head south toward the Puerto de Pajares pass and you're climbing toward 1,300 metres within twenty minutes. Weather here doesn't do gentle transitions; sunshine can morph into horizontal rain before you've tightened your boot laces.

Summer brings the best walking weather, though even July evenings require a fleece. The Camino Salvador – the lesser-known pilgrimage route to Santiago – crosses the municipality, following ancient paths between stone crosses and ruined chapels. Local walking maps mark routes from 45-minute valley strolls to full-day assaults on the Ubiñas massif. The latter requires proper gear and mountain sense – rescue services aren't keen on extracting under-prepared Brits in inappropriate footwear.

Winter transforms everything. Snow arrives early above 1,000 metres, sometimes cutting the Pajares road entirely. Down in the valley it's milder – rarely below freezing – but the damp gets into your bones. This is when locals head to nearby ski resorts; Valgrande-Pajares sits twenty minutes up the road, offering empty slopes and lift passes at €35 daily, roughly half what you'd pay in the Alps.

Eating Like You Mean It

Asturian cuisine suits British tastes perfectly: meat, beans, more meat, finished with rice pudding. The valley's speciality is corderu a la estaca – whole lamb butterflied and roasted vertically on stakes around an outdoor fire pit. The July Prau Llaguezu festival offers the best introduction, though several restaurants will cook to order with advance notice (allow €25-30 per person, minimum four people).

Cider rules here, poured theatrically from height to aerate the flat brew. Natural sidra tastes sharp, almost vinegary – start with sidra dulce if you're cautious. Locals drink it in single mouthfuls; nobody judges foreigners who sip. Wine exists but feels vaguely foreign, like ordering tea in a whisky distillery.

Vegetarians face limited options beyond tortilla and cheese. Most restaurants will cobble something together if asked, but expect confusion – "But the beans have ham, that's not meat, it's just for flavour."

Getting There, Getting Around

You really need wheels. Lena sits 30km south of Oviedo – forty minutes on the regular bus, half that driving. The train from Oviedo trundles down the valley, stopping at Pola de Lena before tackling the Pajares pass toward León. Direct services run from Madrid Chamartín (4.5 hours, from €25 if booked early).

Car hire from Oviedo airport costs €30-40 daily. Roads are generally good, though mountain routes demand respect – Spanish drivers treat overtaking opportunities like personal challenges. Parking in Pola is straightforward except during fiestas, when arriving before 11am saves considerable frustration.

Accommodation remains limited. Pola offers two basic hotels and a handful of rural casas rurales in surrounding villages. Book ahead during summer weekends and fiesta periods – the valley attracts domestic tourists escaping coastal heat, though foreign visitors remain rare enough to warrant curious glances in local bars.

The Honest Truth

Lena won't suit everyone. Nights are quiet, entertainment minimal beyond bars showing football on fuzzy televisions. English is patchy – phrasebook Spanish helps, though locals appreciate any attempt at Asturian dialect (add "-u" endings where you'd expect "-o"). Rain happens year-round; pack accordingly.

Yet for those seeking Spain stripped of tourist veneer, where lunch stretches three hours and conversations flow like cider, Lena delivers. It's a valley where miners' grandchildren now run hiking companies, where ninth-century churches share ridgelines with wind turbines, where Britain's green and pleasant land meets Iberian passion for living well. Just don't expect flamenco – here, the bagpipes reign supreme, and somehow that feels perfectly right.