Cabrales

The woman at the dairy counter hacks a wedge from a drum the colour of old limestone. "This one was aged 200 metres inside the mountain," she says, wrapping it in waxed paper. The smell hits before the taste—ammonia, wet leaf, something almost metallic. Welcome to Cabrales, where even the souvenir shops feel like a dare.

Most British maps still label the place as a single dot, yet Cabrales is less a village than a scatter of hamlets strung across three vertical valleys. The council capital, Carreña, can be crossed in the time it takes to drink a cortado. Its neighbour Arenas de Cabrales—larger, louder, the one with cash machines and Sunday morning markets—functions as the de-facto base for anyone tackling the Cares Gorge. Between them run narrow lanes that double back on themselves like poorly coiled rope; sat-navs surrender and even locals sound unsure when asked for distances. "Twelve minutes," they shrug, "unless the cows are out."

The Gorge That Pays the Bills

The Ruta del Cares is why half the car-registration plates on the verges read Gwent or Greater Manchester. A 12-kilometre catwalk hacked into a limestone canyon, it starts at Poncebos, five minutes above Arenas, and finishes in León province at Caín. Buses leave Arenas at 08:15; by 10:30 the path is two-way traffic, hikers squeezing against rock to let day-trippers pass. The engineering impresses more than the walking—tunnels cut in the 1940s to maintain a water channel, suspension bridges that tremble when a spaniel trots across. Vertigo sufferers turn back at the first cantilever; everyone else photographs the same pothole of emerald water 400 feet below.

Return options are simple: retrace your steps (five hours round trip) or pre-book the 17:00 shuttle from Caín back to Poncebos (€8, seats sell out in July). The middle way—hiking halfway to the bridge at Bolín, eating sandwiches, then heading back—saves knees and bus fares. Whichever you choose, proper boots matter; the stone is polished to ice by thousands of Salomon soles.

Up Among the Hoardes

Above the villages the landscape empties fast. Shepherds' huts, or cabanas, sit alone on ridges, slate roofs weighted with stones against Atlantic gales. These high pastures are where the famous cheese is produced between April and July; wheels of cow, goat and ewe milk are carried by mule into limestone caves whose constant 8 °C temperature and 90 % humidity encourage Penicillium roqueforti to run blue veins like lightning. Visits can be arranged at Quesería Maín, just outside Arenas, but only if you email first; they prefer groups of four or more and charge €12 including tasting. Children get a thimble-sized cube and a glass of milk—wise, because the adult portion makes grown men blink.

The same tracks that serve the cheesemakers double as walking routes. A stiff pull from Arenas leads to the village of Tielve (1 hr 15 min), where bar La Portalada serves cider drawn from chest-height and a bean stew mild enough for timid palates. From Tielve a stone path climbs again to the sheep meadows at Altu la Tornería; on clear days you can pick out the Bay of Biscay, 25 kilometres away. Cloud arrives without introduction, so carry a waterproof even when the morning sky looks blameless.

When the Sun Drops Behind the Peaks

Evenings centre on Arenas' single high street. Pension guests drift between the two competing sidrerías, trying to decide whose pouring technique spills least on the floor. Grilled sirloin with Cabrales sauce (€18) offers a gentle introduction to the cheese; the straight stuff is served in foil parcels that unfold like crime-scene evidence. British visitors expecting Cheddar mildness have been known to reach for the yoghurt dessert in panic—waiters recognise the gesture and laugh.

Arenas also houses the area's only cash point, the post office that sells hiking maps, and the bakery that opens at 07:00 so walkers can stock up before the bus. Accommodation ranges from the functional Hotel Picos de Europa (doubles from €70, rooms with mountain-facing balconies) to five-room guesthouses where the owner leaves a wedge of cheese on the dressing table instead of chocolates. Weekend rates jump 30 %; arrive Sunday to Thursday for quieter trails and lower bills.

Getting Here, Getting Out

The easiest approach is to fly to Santander on a morning Ryanair flight from London, pick up a hire car and reach Arenas in 90 minutes via the A-8 and N-634. Roads are fast until the final 20 kilometres, where the AS-264 wriggles up the valley at 40 km/h. Drivers who dislike reversing round bends should avoid Saturday changeover day when camper vans meet oncoming tractors. Alternatively, ALSA buses run twice daily from Santander to Arenas (2 hr 20 min, €11) and connect with Poncebos for the gorge walk—surprisingly painless, and the reason so many solo hikers leave glowing TripAdvisor posts.

If the weather closes in—common from October to March—plan B is to drop 30 kilometres north to the coast. Llanes offers surf beaches, a medieval centre and ice-cream that tastes of nothing stronger than vanilla, perfect after a morning of blue cheese vapours. Summer visitors do the reverse, sleeping in Cabrales for cool nights and driving to the coast for lunchtime sand and sangria.

Leaving Without the T-Shirt

Cabrales won't give you souvenir overload. Apart from cheese drums vacuum-packed for customs, the local shops sell thick-knit socks, walking sticks and little else. What you take away is subtler: the memory of limestone dust on your calves, the echo of cowbells drifting up a gorge, the knowledge that somewhere in a cave a cheese is mutating into something that would make a French affineur weep. Whether that's a reason to come—or to stay away—depends entirely on how loudly you like your flavours to shout.