Allande

The road from Oviedo climbs 600 m in 45 minutes, then refuses to straighten out for another 20. By the time you reach Pola de Allande, the only sound is the click of cooling brake discs and a cowbell somewhere below the mist. No souvenir stalls, no multilingual menus—just a single cash machine that vanished years ago and a bar that still shuts at three for lunch.

Welcome to the west of Asturias, where Allande occupies a chunk of map the size of the Isle of Wight yet holds fewer people than a Middlesbborough housing estate. The 1,600 locals are scattered across 40-odd hamlets, each with its own slate-roof chapel and granary on stilts. Drive five minutes and the place name changes; drive ten and the mobile signal gives up entirely.

The Camino’s Quiet Side

The village of Berducedo receives the bulk of outsiders, but only because the Camino Primitivo chooses to pass through. Pilgrims arrive muddy and elated after the 28 km “Los Hospitales” ridge—28 km without a shop, tap or roof, the highest stretch on the whole route to Santiago. They eat the €12 menú del día, photograph the Romanesque chapel and leave before the bread basket is refilled. Stay overnight and you’ll witness the split personality: dusk empties the albergue, silence returns, and the owner locks up at ten with the same key her grandmother used.

If you’re walking, carry 1.5 litres of water even in April; the stone channels that once fed medieval hospices are dry half the year. Waterproof trousers aren’t macho overkill—they’re standard, because Asturian rain doesn’t drizzle politely; it reroutes paths down the middle of your stride.

Slate, Chestnut and Emigrant Money

Allande’s colour palette is mineral grey and russet brown. Houses wear roofs of wafer-thin shale that glint like fish scales when the sun breaks through. In October the chestnut woods catch fire—figuratively—turning the hillsides copper and filling the markets with glossy mahogany nuts that roast sweet enough to skip sugar.

Look closer and you’ll spot pastel villas straight out of 1890s Havana. These are the casas de indianos, built by villagers who made fortunes in Cuba and came back determined to outshine their neighbours. One, on the edge of Pola, has a wrap-around veranda wide enough for ballroom dancing; another in Lago sports a turret useless except for showing off. They’re not museums—grandchildren still inherit them—so admire from the gate unless invited in for orujo.

Eating: Fabada Without the Fanfare

British expectations of Spanish food—tapas, paella, chorizo sarnies—fall flat here. Allande does stews, not small plates. Lunch is a three-course affair that starts at two and ends when the mistress of the house finishes washing up.

Try the fabada: white beans, morcilla, chorizo and pancetta simmered until the broth turns glossy. It tastes like a baked bean upgrade and sits in the stomach like ballast—perfect if you’ve just walked 15 km uphill. Vegetarians can ask for pote de berzos, a cabbage-and-potato soup; say “sin morcilla” twice, because the black pudding often arrives pre-diced. Pudding is usually a slab of blueberry tart, the fruit picked from the slopes behind the village and sweetened just enough to feel nostalgic.

Evening options shrink after nine. Two bars serve raciones: the cachopo—veal steak sandwiching ham and cheese, breadcrumbed and fried—could double as a pillow and defeats most appetites half-way through. A half-litre of cider costs €3 and arrives with the obligatory high-pour show; drink it quickly before it loses its fizz.

When to Come (and When to Stay Away)

Spring brings cowslips and daylight that stretches walking time until eight. Roads are quiet, the hills smell of wet earth and the first fabada of the year is still a novelty. Autumn trades flowers for fungi; locals head into the woods with pocket knives and wicker baskets. Join them only if you can tell a cep from a death cap—hospital A&E is an hour away in Cangas.

Summer fiestas erupt in every parish: bagpipes, ox-roast, open-air dancing that finishes when the teenagers give up. Accommodation fills up around 15 August; book ahead or be prepared to sleep in the municipal albergue with snoring pilgrims. Winter is a lottery. A clear day offers snow-dusted ridges and star-filled nights certified by the Starlight Foundation—better Milky Way views than Northumberland’s dark-sky park. A wet one means fog thick enough to cancel the view from your bedroom window and roads that turn to sludge. Carry snow chains from December to March; the council does its best but gritters take a while to reach hamlets with 23 residents.

Getting Here, Getting Around

Public transport is theoretical. One Alsa bus leaves Oviedo at 13:15 Monday to Friday, reaches Pola at 15:30 and returns at 06:45 next morning. That’s it. Weekends require a taxi (€90 pre-booked) or hire car. Petrol stations close on Sundays; fill up in Tineo before the final climb. Distances look tiny on Google Maps—12 km, 18 km—but average speeds hover around 35 km/h once the bends start. Allow twice the time you would in the Cotswolds and you’ll still arrive early.

The Honest Verdict

Allande won’t suit everyone. Nightlife is a choice between two bar stools and the sound of your own thoughts. Mobile coverage vanishes halfway up any track. If it rains for three days straight, the novelty of “authentic rural Spain” wears thin and you’ll crave a Tesco Express.

Yet that is exactly why some travellers fall in love. There is no souvenir tat, no coach park, no multilingual audio guide. What you get instead is a landscape that demands effort and rewards it with empty trails, homemade cider and a church bell that still marks the hours. Come prepared—bring cash, offline maps and an appetite for beans—and Allande offers the Spain you half-wondered whether Franco’s ghost had closed to visitors. Just don’t expect to conquer it in a weekend. You’ll leave with unchecked villages, unfinished paths and the quiet certainty that next year you’ll return—this time with better waterproofs.