Somiedo

The fog rolls in at two o'clock, exactly when the trail guide said it wouldn't. One minute you're photographing cowbells the size of grapefruits, the next you're squinting through drizzle at a stone hut that definitely wasn't on the map. Welcome to Somiedo, where the weather keeps its own schedule and the mountains have the final say.

This is Asturias at its most uncompromising. Five valleys carve through the municipality, each demanding its own detour along roads that convert 15 kilometres into forty minutes of brake-testing hairpins. The payoff? Lakes suspended between peaks, forests that turn emerald after rain, and Spain's best shot at spotting a brown bear—though you'll need patience, binoculars, and preferably someone who knows what they're doing.

The Bear Necessities

Let's address the ursine in the room. Cantabrian brown bears do live here—roughly forty of them—yet seeing one requires lottery-level luck plus a guide who understands both animal behaviour and British expectations. Local wildlife companies charge £50-60 for a half-day session, supply telescopes, and manage disappointment when the bears simply don't show. They usually don't. What you will see are tracks, scat, and scratched tree trunks, which somehow feels more authentic than a distant silhouette anyway.

The bears' presence shapes everything. Farmers lock barns at dusk. Rubbish bins bear-proof. Trail closures happen without warning if cubs are spotted nearby. It's wildlife tourism with the edges left sharp, refreshing in an age of guaranteed animal selfies.

Walking Into the Past

The lakes of Saliencia pull coach parties from Oviedo, but arrive before nine and you'll share the path only with shepherd dogs and the occasional rebeco mountain goat. The four lakes sit in a glacial bowl at 1,600 metres; the largest, Lago del Valle, reflects the ridgeline like a black mirror when the wind drops. The walk takes three hours if you're British and stop every five minutes to photograph mushrooms. Mark it moderate, not gentle—Asturian "moderate" translates to Lake District "quite steep actually."

More interesting are the brañas: stone cowherds' huts with turf roofs that pre-date the Reformation. Mumián and Pornacal get the Instagram traffic, yet dozens scatter across the slopes, many still used during summer grazing. Their teito roofs—thick layers of grass and heather—insulate against both winter snow and summer heat. Inside, smoke-blackened walls testify to centuries of cheese-making. Respect the boundaries: if a gate's closed, it stays closed. The dogs aren't pets and they definitely aren't joking.

When the Sun Doesn't Shine

Summer arrives late and leaves early. July mornings can start at 22°C in the valleys, yet the same afternoon you're fumbling for a fleece at 2,000 metres while cloud races across the pass. British walkers adapt quickly—this is standard Peak District weather with better food. What catches visitors out is the speed: fronts roll in from the Bay of Biscay and dump an Atlantic's worth of water in twenty minutes. Bring proper waterproofs and don't trust mountain forecasts beyond lunchtime.

The rain isn't a spoiler. It transforms the beech forests into something primordial, all moss and fern and dripping branches. Waterfalls appear overnight. The stone villages—Pola de Somiedo, Taramundi, Villarín—smell of woodsmoke and wet slate. Just don't expect to dry out quickly. Rural hotels rely on log burners, not central heating, and hanging space comes at a premium.

Eating Above the Clouds

Food here predates tourist menus. Fabada, the regional bean stew, arrives in terracotta cazuelas large enough for two. The version at Bar Carbrona in Valle de Lago uses locally cured morcilla and costs €9—order it after hiking, not before. Cabrales cheese turns up everywhere: crumbled over veal, melted into croquettes, served in slabs that make Stilton taste timid. The sensible approach is sharing; a full portion of cabrales sauce defeats most appetites by the third bite.

Timing matters. Kitchens close early—lunch finishes at 3.30 pm, dinner orders in by 9 pm. Many restaurants won't open at all on Tuesday or Wednesday. Stock up in Pola de Somiedo's two small supermarkets before heading to high villages, and carry cash. Card machines remain a novelty in hamlets where the phone signal died with 3G.

Getting Lost Properly

Google Maps gives up around Saliencia. GPS routing follows theoretical roads that wash away each winter, leaving hire cars stranded in fords that looked seasonal on screen. Download offline maps, then ignore them in favour of asking locals. Directions come with caveats: "Turn left at the orange tractor, unless it's moved, then keep going until you smell cows."

The council maintains a network of waymarked trails, but signage assumes Spanish hiking experience. A yellow dash painted on stone might indicate "continue straight" or "beware bull"—context matters. If the path turns into a stream, you're probably still on route. If you haven't seen a waymark for twenty minutes, you definitely aren't.

The Honest Season

August brings Spanish holidaymakers and prices to match. Trails near the lakes feel like the Cotswolds on a bank holiday, complete with Bluetooth speakers and disposable barbecues. Visit mid-June instead, when orchids flower along the verges and accommodation costs 30% less. September works too, though nights drop to 8°C and some high restaurants shut after the fifteenth.

Winter transforms Somiedo into something altogether harder. Roads ice over. Bears hibernate. The lakes freeze hard enough for locals to drill fishing holes. It's spectacular, but requires winter tyres, proper mountaineering kit, and acceptance that your plans might end at the first snowdrift. Spring arrives reluctantly—don't bank on decent hiking before May.

Leaving the Car Behind

Public transport exists, barely. One bus daily connects Pola de Somiedo to Oviedo, leaving at dawn and returning after dark. It serves schoolchildren more than tourists. Without wheels you're limited to valley-bottom walks, pleasant but missing the high country drama. A small hire car isn't optional—it's entry fee.

Drive slowly. The AS-227 serves as testing ground for Spanish lorry drivers who've forgotten what brakes feel like. Pull over at the lay-bys; they're not scenic stops, they're survival pockets. Every local has stories of British visitors discovering too late that reversing half a kilometre round blind bends isn't covered by standard insurance.

Somiedo doesn't do highlights reels. It's a place where stone huts leak in October storms, where bears ignore your carefully planned itinerary, where a three-lake walk becomes two because the fog says no. That's precisely the point. Come prepared, expect less than perfect, and leave understanding why some corners of Spain remain stubbornly indifferent to Instagram.