Proaza

In Proaza the morning air arrives thin and cool even in July, because the village sits 300 m above the Trubia river and the surrounding walls of limestone push the altitude higher still. Residents keep fleece jackets hung by the front door all year; visitors who arrive in T-shirts after balmy Oviedo, 24 km away, usually fish for jumpers before they order coffee. The place is less a single nucleated pueblo than a string of hamlets stitched along a narrow road: red-tiled roofs between chestnut groves, the occasional stone hórreo on stilts, and a petrol station that doubles as the newspaper shop. Expect one proper café, one lunchtime restaurant open on and off, and a timetable that quietly reminds you the siesta still matters.

Bears, bins and the Casa del Oso

The valley markets itself as “Territorio del Oso,” yet the brown bears are shy, largely nocturnal and rarely photographed. What you will notice are reinforced rubbish containers, warning stickers on glass-recycling bins and a local fondness for recounting last week’s footprint sighting as if it were football results. Start at the Casa del Oso, a low wooden building beside the main road. Inside, short films explain how a population that dropped below 50 animals in the 1990s has clawed its way back; children can compare their hand span to an acrylic paw print the size of a dinner plate. Entry is free, donations welcome, and twenty minutes inside saves you wondering why every other gift-shop T-shirt carries a claw motif.

The gorge that bites back

From the Casa a farm track leads straight into the Desfiladero de las Xanas, the gorge that earns Proaza its place on Spanish hiking calendars. The path is only eight kilometres return but it is not a gentle garden stroll: in places engineers have chiselled the walkway straight out of a cliff, leaving a two-metre drop to the river on one side and a wall of fern on the other. After rain the limestone turns slick as ice; walkers in road-worn trainers discover the hard way that grip matters. The reward is a slim corridor of green water, overhanging oak and the occasional otter track on a sandbank. Set off before ten in summer; at midday the sun clears the rim and the gorge becomes a roasting tin with no shade.

A thousand-year-old yew and three villages that time forgot

Above the valley the road to Bermiego winds through bracken and heather until it ends beside a cemetery. There, within spitting distance of the graves, grows the Tejo Milenario, a yew tree older than the Reconquista. The trunk is not especially wide, but the branches have split and re-rooted so many times that the whole organism behaves like a small wood. Pause for five minutes and you will probably have the spot to yourself; there are no ticket barriers, audio guides or souvenir stalls. From Bermiego a footpath drops to Caranga, Proacina and Santianes, hamlets where grain is still stored in stone granaries balanced on mushroom-shaped pillars. Chickens wander across the lane, someone’s grandfather sits shelling beans, and the loudest noise is a tractor gearing down for the gradient. If you are tempted to photograph an old woman pinning laundry, ask first; this is home, not an open-air museum.

Cycling the old railway

Five kilometres downstream the Senda del Oso reclaims a disused mine railway. The surface is tarmac, the gradient negligible, and bike-repair stations appear every few kilometres, yet the surroundings stay resolutely wild: kingfishers, grey herons and the odd griffon vulture surfing thermals above the gorge. You can hire hybrids in Teverga or Quirós; from Proaza the upstream section to the tunnel mouths is 14 km return and takes most families a leisurely two hours with snack stops. Bear footprints have been seen on the muddy verges, though daytime sightings are virtually nil. Lock bikes at the metal rails and walk the final 400 m to the collapsed railway bridge for the best river view.

What to eat (and when)

Asturian cider is stronger than anything brewed in Somerset—usually 6% and still, poured from head height to aerate. One glass feels like two British pints; drivers should hold back. Food is sturdy rather than delicate: fabada bean stew, chorizo simmered in cider, and tetilla cheese shaped like a breast, perfect picnic ammunition. Kitchens close by 15:30. Miss that window and you are down to crisps at the bar unless you drive to the industrial estate outside neighbouring Teverga. Vegetarians can usually assemble a cheese-and-walnut salad, but vegans should pack supplies.

Practical altitude notes

Proaza’s height moderates summer heat—expect 24 °C at midday instead of 32 °C on the Oviedo coast—yet winter brings early fog and the occasional snow flurry when rain falls as sleet 600 m higher up the slopes. The Xanas gorge is officially closed in high wind; even when open, ice can linger on the shaded path until late morning. If you plan Christmas walking, carry micro-spikes and start late enough for thaw but early enough for daylight; sunset creeps before 18:00. Mobile reception is patchy once you leave the main road, so download offline maps before you set out.

Crowds, or the lack of them

Coach tours funnel straight to the Senda del Oso bike-hire hubs further down-river, leaving Proaza itself pleasingly quiet. August weekends can still clog the Xanas car park by eleven; arrive before nine or after sixteen and you will share the gorge with a handful of locals walking dogs. Outside school holidays you may find the Casa del Oso locked unless you ring ahead—opening hours shrink to “weekends only” in low season. Accommodation is mostly rural casas rurales sleeping six; solo travellers may discover minimum stays of two nights. The nearest hotel with a receptionist 24/7 is in Grado, 35 minutes by car.

Leaving without the hard sell

Proaza does not deliver cathedrals, Michelin stars or souvenir overload. What it offers is a cool mountain breather from coastal humidity, footpaths that feel genuinely out the back door, and the small thrill of knowing bears roam the same woods after dark. Come prepared for silence, sudden weather shifts and the possibility of lunch consisting entirely of bread, cheese and a glass of something that knocks like a hammer. If that sounds reasonable, the valley will greet you with the same unhurried nod it gives its own inhabitants.