Villayón

The AS-219 from Navia climbs 400 metres in fourteen tight kilometres. By the time the sign for Villayón appears, the windscreen is already freckled with rain and the Atlantic has vanished behind a ridge of chestnut trees. This is not the Spain of plazas de toros and flamenco postcards; it is the other Spain, the one that faces the weather and keeps a coat by the door even in August.

At 450 metres above sea level, Villayón sits just below the cloud line. The air is cooler than on the coast—sometimes ten degrees—and the vegetation knows it. Brambles ripen later, ferns stay green all year, and the local cows wear bells that clang like loose scaffolding. The council stretches across a web of tiny hamlets—Cibuyo, Andía, Folgueiras—each with a church the size of an English parish hall and a bar that opens when the owner hears the first tractor of the day.

Driving Lessons

A car is non-negotiable. The nearest railway station is in Ferrol, an hour and forty minutes west, and the daily bus from Oviedo is more rumour than reality. Fly into Asturias airport (OVD), collect the hire car, and head west on the A-8 until the sat-nav panics and throws you onto a lane wide enough for one donkey and a sense of humour. Ignore the suggested “shortcuts”; they are forestry tracks where meeting a pine lorry ends in reverse gear and a polite wave.

Petrol stations thin out after Navia, so fill the tank and stock up on milk and bananas while you can. Villayón’s single shop keeps Spanish hours: open at nine, shut at two, perhaps open again at five if nothing needs collecting from the vet. On Sundays it stays dark; plan accordingly or you’ll be eating chorizo for breakfast, lunch and tea—not necessarily a hardship.

What Passes for a Centre

The village proper—San Martín de Villayón—is a scatter of stone houses around a church whose bell tolls the quarters whether anyone is listening or not. There is no medieval core, no Renaissance palace behind iron gates. Instead, you get slate roofs the colour of wet lead, granaries on stilts called hórreos, and the occasional coat of arms carved by someone who clearly never expected a coach party to turn up. The place is lived-in: washing lines, vegetable patches, a dog asleep across the doorway of the panadería.

Walk fifteen minutes in any direction and the tarmac gives way to a dirt track flanked by dry-stone walls. Follow one of these paths at random and you’ll probably reach a waterfall. The most signed is Oneta, twenty minutes by car and another twenty on foot, where two streams drop into a slate bowl so cold that even in July the bravest Yorkshireman thinks twice. After heavy rain the path turns into an obstacle course of boot-sucking mud; bring waterproof trousers or prepare for the slow squelch of shame.

Calendar of Silence

April and May are the kindest months. Meadows are yellow with buttercups, nights stay above ten degrees, and the only tourists are Spanish school parties measuring river flow for geography projects. September repeats the trick, swapping flowers for blackberries that grow so thick along the lanes you can fill a tub in half an hour—provided the locals haven’t beaten you to it.

Summer brings fiestas: sack races, ox-pulling contests, cider poured from shoulder height into glasses the size of eggcups. The noise stops at midnight sharp; the village police—one man, one whistle—likes his bed. In winter the population halves again. Snow closes the higher passes, pipes freeze, and the council gritter works a four-day week. Book a casa rural with central heating rather than the brochure promise of “rustic authenticity”; stone cottages leak heat faster than a Tory manifesto.

Things to Do When Doing Nothing is the Point

Hiking routes exist, but they are neither engineered nor way-marked to British standards. The PR-AS-19 trundles along an old miners’ path from Villayón to the abandoned gold workings of El Valle, a six-kilometre loop that gains 250 metres of altitude and demands proper soles. After rain the slate turns into a slide; walking poles save both pride and physiotherapy bills.

Birdlife is easier than navigation. Griffon vultures ride the thermals above the chestnut woods, and if you sit quietly on the stone bridge at Cibuyo you’ll usually spot a dipper bobbing mid-stream like a wind-up toy. Pack binoculars and a thermos; benches are provided, though never level.

Evening entertainment is DIY. Bars shut by eleven, earlier if the owner’s mother phones. Download a box-set before you leave Britain, bring cards, or master the art of cider pouring: bottle held high, glass held low, eyes fixed on the rim not the television. Sweet cider (sidra dulce) tastes closer to Somerset than Somerset does; the dry stuff strips enamel.

What Lands on the Plate

Expect mountain portions. Fabada, the local bean and pork stew, arrives in bowls big enough to bathe a cat; one serving feeds two comfortably, especially if you order the obligatory side of crusty bread to wipe the bowl clean. Restaurants—there are three within the council boundary—serve it on Tuesdays, Thursdays and festival days, or whenever the cook feels like it. Phone ahead or you’ll get tortilla and a shrug.

Cheese is another constant. Afuega’l pitu comes in three colours: white, smoked-red, and the wrinkled orange “trapu” that tastes like Cheddar with a hangover. Start with the mild version; the pungent stuff has been known to make grown men cry into their cider. Dessert is usually rice pudding sprinkled with cinnamon, served tepid because the microwave broke in 1998 and nobody has got round to fixing it.

The Honest Catch

Villayón will not suit everyone. If you need souvenir shops, Uber, or a choice of three restaurants within stumbling distance, stay in Llanes or Cangas de Onís. Mobile coverage is patchy—Vodafone vanishes entirely in Folgueiras—and the nearest cash machine is back down in Navia. Come with a full tank, a half-full wallet and the assumption that tomorrow’s weather is a coin toss.

Yet for travellers who measure success by how few other foreigners they meet, the village delivers. You can walk all morning without seeing anyone except a farmer shifting sheep, eat lunch for twelve euros including wine, and finish the afternoon asleep on a riverbank listening to nothing louder than water and your own pulse. Just remember to set an alarm: the shop shuts at five, and tomorrow’s breakfast depends on it.