Caravia

The tide pulls back from Playa de la Espasa and reveals a limestone shelf pock-marked with seawater pools. A woman in wellies appears from nowhere, bucket in hand, and starts prising percebes off the rocks. She works fast—twenty minutes, maybe thirty—before the sea returns. This is Caravia's version of rush hour.

Five hundred people live in this scatter of farmsteads and beach car parks on Asturias' eastern flank. Administratively it's a municipality; in practice it's two distinct strips. Caravia Alta sits 150 m above sea level, its stone granaries and dairy meadows cooled by mountain air. Caravia Baja drops to the Cantabrian Sea through a series of switchbacks so tight that local farmers still count distances in "curvas" rather than kilometres. The whole coast is only 6 km long—cliffs, two proper beaches, one half-hidden cove—yet the road between them wriggles for 11.

What the map doesn't show

Sat-nav will insist you have "arrived" the moment you reach the N-632 junction. In reality you have another quarter-hour of single-track before anything resembling a village appears. Prado, the administrative centre, amounts to a church, a pharmacy and Bar Sestiello where breakfast arrives on a metal plate: two eggs, morcilla, and bread that could double as ballast. Coffee is €1.20 if you stand at the counter, €1.50 at a table—pricing logic that has survived every euro crisis since 2002.

The coast road (AS-257) is newer but equally narrow. Camper-van drivers discover too late that the lay-bys are sized for Asturian pick-ups, not three-berth Dethleffs. August weekends turn the verge into a kilometre-long caravan queue; police cone off one lane and direct traffic like a rural Monaco Grand Prix minus the glamour. Come in May or late September and you have the tarmac to yourself.

Sand, wind and the wrong kind of chips

Playa de la Espasa faces due north, funnelling Atlantic weather straight at the shore. On paper it's a kilometre of golden sand; in February it feels like the edge of the world. Summer improves matters, but even then the sea keeps its reputation. Red flags fly more often than green, and the surf rescue truck patrols twice daily. Body-boarders congregate at the eastern end where a reef shapes consistent left-handers; families cluster westwards near the freshwater shower (cold, coin-operated, 50 cents for two minutes).

Arenal de Morís, technically in neighbouring Colunga, sits five minutes' drive east and offers marginally gentler waves. The sand is coarser, the car park larger, and a chiringuito sells oversized baguettes stuffed with tortilla. Both beaches shelve steeply—toddlers who can stand up in Cornwall will be out of their depth here. Bring surf shoes; broken shell fragments make barefoot paddling a blood sport.

Between the two, a footpath hugs the cliff top for 3 km. Way-marking is sporadic—cairns painted with yellow stripes—but the route is obvious: keep the sea on your right and don't step on the cows. Halfway along, a concrete platform gives a vantage point back towards the Picos de Europa. On clear mornings the mountains appear close enough to touch; by afternoon the same peaks vanish behind a haze that meteorologists call "calima" and locals call "el sudoku" because it makes everything fuzzy.

Lunch where the fishermen eat

Fitomar occupies a single-storey bungalow opposite Morís car park. Plastic chairs, paper tablecloths, menu scrawled on a whiteboard. Grilled monkfish arrives in chunks the size of a cricket ball, brushed with nothing more than olive oil and sea salt. A plate of almejas a la marinera produces eight clams swimming in parsley-flecked liquor; mop it up with bread baked that morning in Colunga. Expect to pay €14–16 for a main, €2 for a half-bottle of wine that would cost £18 in Brighton. They close Tuesdays, random Wednesdays, and whenever the owner "goes fishing"—ring ahead if you're making a special trip.

Vegetarians have two choices: tortilla or ensalada mixta. Coeliacs should learn the Spanish phrase "sin gluten" because the waiter's English extends only to "OK" and a thumbs-up. Payment is cash only; the nearest ATM is back in Prado, 7 km uphill.

Up top: cows, cider and the longest lunch

Caravia Alta's lanes are barely wider than a combine harvester, yet traffic includes full-size milk tankers that somehow squeeze past without trimming the hydrangeas. Stone hórreos on stilts dot every other garden; originally built to keep vermin from grain, they now store garden tools and the occasional rusty Vespa. Public footpaths are sign-posted but unmaintained—expect nettles and the unmistakable squelch of agricultural mud.

A short loop from Duyos hamlet climbs through eucalyptus and returns past the 12th-century chapel of San Félix. The building is locked unless you borrow the key from Casa Flora (look for the house with the blue door and the aggressive cockerel). Inside, fresco fragments survive only where roof leaks haven't reached; damp has erased the saints' faces, leaving ghostly outlines like an over-bleached photograph.

Bar La Llera, halfway between coast and plateau, opens at noon and stops serving when the cider runs out. Locals drink standing; visitors who sit get charged an extra 20 cents but also get a bowl of crisps. Cider is poured from shoulder height to "break" the bubbles—accept the ritual, don't attempt it yourself unless you fancy mopping the floor. Driving afterwards is tolerated but breath-tested; the limit is 0.25 mg/l, lower than the UK's 0.35.

The honest season guide

May–June Wild foxgloves line the lanes, temperatures hover around 20 °C, and parking is free. Sea temperature is 16 °C—bracing for a quick dip, fine in a wetsuit. Rain showers pass on the same breeze that brings them.

July–August Spanish schools are out; both beaches reach capacity by 11 a.m. Hotel El Babu (three converted farm buildings, no sea view, €95 B&B) books up six months ahead. Evenings stay light until 22:00; traffic noise from the A-8 drifts up the valley until midnight.

September The sweet spot. Water peaks at 19 °C, crowds retreat, and the first Atlantic swells roll in. Farmers cut the second hay crop; the air smells of drying grass and diesel.

October–April Everything shrinks. Bars open Friday-Sunday only, the coastal road floods in heavy storms, and daylight is gone by 18:30. On the plus side, you can walk the beaches without seeing another footprint—and hotel rates drop to €55.

How to do it (without the rookie errors)

Fly to Santander (Ryanair from Stansted, Manchester, Edinburgh) or Oviedo (seasonal easyJet). Hire cars are cheaper at Santander; the drive to Caravia takes 75 minutes on the A-8 toll-free motorway. Fill the tank before leaving the airport—rural stations close at 20:00 and add a 5-cent surcharge on Sundays.

Pack layers: even August can demand a fleece at 17:00 when the onshore breeze kicks in. Download offline maps; Vodafone and O2 lose signal behind every second headland. Bring cash in tens and twenties—parking meters, cider bars and the lone bakery in Prado all reject cards. Finally, check tide times before exploring rock pools at Espasa. The Atlantic returns faster than you can say "I thought it looked a bit close."

Caravia won't change your life. It will, however, give you a coastline where the cows still outnumber tourists, a lunch bill that feels like a misprint, and the realisation that "nothing to do" can be a perfectly respectable travel plan.