Salas

The first thing you notice is the smell of hazelnut biscuits drifting from a doorway on Calle Real. It’s nine in the morning, the air still sharp at 200 m above sea level, and half of Salas is already queueing at La Casa del Profesor for the day’s batch of carajitos. Brits who arrive expecting custard creams leave clutching paper bags warm from the oven; resistance is pointless.

Salas sits where the A-63 motorway peters out into the Cantabrian foothills, 45 minutes inland from Avilés and just far enough from the coast to keep the tour buses at bay. Five thousand people live here, yet the centre feels smaller: three streets, two squares and a castle whose square keep pokes above the slate roofs like a watchful older brother. You can walk from one end to the other in ten minutes—fifteen if you stop to read the heraldic shields carved into every other doorway.

Stone, Soup and the Small Matter of a Castle

The 14th-century Castillo de Salas is privately owned, so forget turreted fantasies unless you book the parador suite inside. What you get instead is a free geology lesson: limestone blocks the colour of weathered Cotswold stone, iron-grilled windows and a grassy rampart where local teenagers practise their first roll-ups. Stand at the base and tilt your head: the tower leans a fraction, legacy of an 18th-century lightning strike and subsequent hasty repair. The attached Pre-Romanesque museum opens only when cruise groups ring ahead—worth knowing before you climb the cobbles with a National Trust mindset.

Below the castle, the Colegiata de Santa María la Mayor squats heavy and serious, a 16th-century response to the question “How do you show the neighbours you’ve arrived?” Inside, the Valdés Salas family pantheon lines the south wall like a stone WhatsApp group of long-dead nobles. The retablo is pure Spanish Renaissance—lots of gilt, plenty of blood-red paint—and if you catch the caretaker in a good mood he’ll switch the lights on for nothing. Don’t bank on it; services are erratic and the donation box rattles accusingly if you linger.

The rest of the historic core is refreshingly uncurated. Arcades shelter grocery shops that still weigh out chickpeas on brass scales; a 1930s pharmacy sells charcoal tablets in tiny envelopes; the town hall flies the Asturian blue-and-yellow flag at half-mast whenever a local mayor dies. Sit on the granite steps with a café con leche (€1.30, no menu in English) and you’ll hear more Galician-accented Spanish than Estuary English. August除外, when the Camino Primitivo funnels a trickle of sweaty pilgrims through the square in search of menú del día.

Lunch at Height: Mountain Cooking Without the Cable Car

Altitude here is modest—230 m—but enough to sharpen appetites. The daily set menu runs to three courses, water and a bottle of cider for €12–14. Start with fabada, the local bean and chorizo stew; it arrives in an earthenware dish big enough to use as a helmet. Follow with cachopo, two veal steaks glued together with Serrano ham and cheese, breadcrumbed and fried until the size of a hardback. One feeds two normal appetites; solo diners negotiate takeaway boxes with varying success. Vegetarians get pote asturiano, a cabbage and bean broth that tastes better than it sounds, especially when the Atlantic drizzle starts.

Cider etiquette matters. The waiter holds the green bottle above his head, aims for a tilted glass at waist height and produces a 30 cm cascade of liquid gold. The trick is to drink the splash immediately—before it loses its fizz—then return the glass so he can top up the next person. YouTube tutorials exist; pride does not recover from a stained shirt.

Walking It Off: Valley Floors and Chestnut Woods

You don’t come to Salas for Himalayan vistas. What you get are neat pasture hedges, red-roofed hamlets and the Narcea river glinting 100 m below. Three signed walks start from the football pitch at the edge of town: the shortest (5 km, 90 min) loops through chestnut coppice to the abandoned village of Tablado, where storks nest on the church bell-tower. The longest (12 km) follows an old drove road to Cornellana monastery, an 11th-century sandstone complex that once sheltered kings and now shelters swallows. Take the 10:15 bus back if legs mutiny—timetables are taped inside the bakery window.

Road cyclists like the AS-219 towards Grado: quiet, rolling and lined with wild garlic in April. Warning surfaces after rain: fallen leaves plus Cantabrian humidity equal black-ice levels of slither. Mountain bikers head south on forest tracks where Google Maps still shows 1950s cart tracks; phone signal dies after 3 km, so download offline maps or embrace the possibility of spending the night under a holly bush.

When to Bother, and When to Push On

Spring and autumn deliver the goods: 18 °C afternoons, cool nights and gorse-scented air that makes you understand why Asturias markets itself as “natural”. Summer is warm but rarely stifling; August weekends see Spanish families descend for communion parties, so book the parador early or expect to drive 25 km to the nearest spare bed. Winter brings Atlantic fronts that can dump 20 cm of snow overnight. The castle looks magnificent in white, but the cobbled streets turn into a bobsleigh run; pack treaded soles and a sense of humour.

Rain can arrive any month. Locals shrug, pop open an umbrella and order another carajito. The biscuits absorb moisture, they claim; empirical evidence suggests they also absorb red wine rather well.

Practical Stuff Without the Bullet-Point Boredom

Driving from Santander ferry takes 90 minutes on the A-8, then 20 km of switchbacks up the AS-219. Fill up at the motorway services—petrol stations thin out after exit 434. If you’re public-transport loyal, ALSA coaches link Oviedo and Salas five times daily; the journey winds through 60 km of cow-filled valleys and costs €6. Sundays halve the service, so check the ALSA app before you settle into that final pint of cider.

Parking is painless. A blue-zone car park behind the Colegiata charges €1 for the day; machines reject foreign cards, so keep coins. The castle-hotel has free spaces for guests—reserve when you book, spaces equal rooms. Cash remains king: half the bars lack card readers and the only ATM shuts at 14:00 sharp. English is patchy; a cheery “Buenas!” and a phrase-book go further than GCSE French ever did.

Most shops lock their doors at 14:00 and reopen around 17:00. Plan lunch accordingly—arriving at 15:30 guarantees a closed kitchen and a packet of crisps for dinner. Bakeries shut on Sunday and Monday; stock up Saturday or survive on carajitos (not the worst fate).

Exit Strategy

Salas works best as a pausing point rather than a base camp. One slow morning for biscuits and castle views, one afternoon for Cornellana or a chestnut walk, then move on to the coast or the Picos. Stay longer and you’ll start recognising the same three dogs, the same four old men on the bench, the same cider waiter who remembers you spilled the first pour. That familiarity is part of the charm—just don’t expect non-stop spectacle. The village offers breathing space, not adrenaline; hazelnut biscuits, not Michelin stars. And sometimes, on a quiet Tuesday in October, that’s exactly what a British traveller needs.