Colunga

The dinosaur footprints appear only at low tide. They're not marked with neon signs or fenced off for photos – just three-toed impressions pressed into grey limestone, stretching towards the Cantabrian Sea like prehistoric stepping stones. This is Colunga's quiet magic: evidence of 150-million-year-old life, revealed twice daily by Atlantic waters that still feed the village's fishing boats and family kitchens.

Between Mountain and Shore

Colunga sits where the Sueve range drops abruptly to the coast, creating a landscape that shifts from beach towel to walking boots in ten minutes flat. The council capital – essentially a small market town of 3,000 souls – spreads along the AS-257, a road that links beach hamlets to hillside farming communities where stone granaries perch on stilts and morning mist pools in valleys below.

This geography shapes daily life in ways that surprise visitors expecting flat Costa convenience. The morning fish auction at Lastres harbour happens at 8 am sharp, but the village itself clings to a cliff so steep that delivery vans use lower gears reserved for Alpine passes. Taxi drivers know to drop passengers at the top of Calle San Roque; attempting to drive down to the waterfront restaurants means reversing uphill past medieval doorways while locals watch with the resigned patience of people who've seen it all before.

The beaches tell their own story. La Isla curves westwards in a gentle arc protected by a rocky headland, creating swimming conditions calm enough for toddlers but with enough Atlantic swell to keep bodyboarders happy. La Griega, three kilometres east, faces full-on ocean weather – perfect for kite-flying when the wind blows, but requiring caution when red flags snap in the breeze. Neither offers sun-lounger concessions or cocktail service; instead, families spread blankets near the tide line while grandparents supervise from parked cars, boots popped open to reveal elaborate picnic setups that would shame most British wedding receptions.

Time-Keeping, Spanish-Style

Clocks run differently here. The Jurassic Museum opens at 10 am, but the attached café doesn't serve coffee until the attendant finishes chatting with her neighbour about yesterday's octopus prices. Lastres restaurants fire up kitchens for lunch at 1:30 pm precisely – arrive at 1:15 and you'll wait outside with hungry Madrilenos who learned this lesson last summer. Dinner service ends abruptly at 11 pm; attempting to order dessert at 10:58 prompts polite refusal and suggestions for late-night churros in Colunga town, ten minutes' drive inland.

These rhythms reward flexibility. Market day (Tuesday) transforms the capital's main square into a produce paradise where farmers sell cabbages the size of footballs and cheese makers offer Cabrales samples strong enough to clear sinuses from three metres away. The transaction involves ritual: vendor cuts a sliver, watches for facial expressions, adjusts price accordingly. Nod too enthusiastically and you'll walk away with half a kilo wrapped in newspaper; feign indifference and the price drops faster than last year's peseta.

Walking Through History

The dinosaur route works best as gentle stroll rather than box-ticking exercise. Start at La Griega beach car park (free, but full by 11 am in August) and follow the wooden boardwalk eastwards. Interpretation panels explain geological processes without dumbing down – these fossils helped scientists understand how massive sauropods moved in herds across ancient mudflats. The prints themselves, when visible, appear almost disappointingly subtle until perspective clicks: those oval depressions, each larger than a dinner plate, were made by creatures weighing twenty tonnes.

For human history, drive five kilometres inland to Sabada. The 13th-century church stands alone among wheat fields, its Romanesque portal decorated with carvings that mix Christian symbolism with pre-Romanesque motifs borrowed from nearby monasteries. The key keeper lives opposite – knock loudly, she's slightly deaf but delighted to show visitors around for a two-euro donation. Inside, faded frescoes reveal medieval paint recipes using local minerals: ochre from riverbeds, blue from copper deposits in the Sueve.

The viewpoint at Mirador del Fitu delivers the money shot, but timing matters. Morning light illuminates the coast perfectly, revealing how farmers have terraced hillsides into tiny plots that cascade towards the sea. Afternoon brings haze that softens edges and makes the Picos de Europa appear closer than their actual forty-kilometre distance. Sunset transforms everything into golden hour perfection, but you'll share the moment with coach parties who've driven up from Gijón for the classic photo.

What to Eat and When

Food here refuses to pander to international tastes. Fabada arrives in individual clay pots, the beans slow-cooked with morcilla blood sausage that melts into the broth. It's rib-sticking stuff designed for fishermen starting shifts at 5 am – ordering it for lunch might necessitate an afternoon nap rather than beach activities. The local chuletón (rib-eye steaks weighing 800 grams minimum) gets cooked over holm-oak embers and served rare unless specifically requested otherwise – asking for well-done produces sympathetic glances usually reserved for small children.

Cider culture dominates evenings. Proper service involves holding the bottle arm's-length above your head while aiming for a thin stream that hits the glass edge, creating natural carbonation. Locals down each 100-millilitre serving in one go, leaving sediment in the bottom for the next pour. Tourists attempting this ritual usually end up with sticky tables and stained shirts – barmen keep cloths handy for good reason. The taste surprises: dry, slightly sour, more like Somerset farmhouse cider than Spanish sunshine stereotypes.

Practical Realities

August changes everything. Spanish holidaymakers book accommodation months ahead, filling rental flats with extended families who treat beach trips like military operations. Traffic queues build from 10 am as cars search for parking at La Isla – the council runs shuttle buses, but these stop at 8 pm, stranding late diners. Restaurant reservations become essential; walking into Lastres waterfront establishments without booking guarantees an hour's wait minimum, often longer.

Weather refuses to cooperate with British expectations of Spanish summers. July averages 22°C – perfect for hiking but requiring jumpers after sunset. Rain arrives suddenly from the Atlantic, sending beachgoers scrambling for cars while locals shrug and continue card games under café awnings. Pack waterproofs regardless of forecast; the Sueve creates its own microclimate where clouds dump moisture on windward slopes while the coast stays clear.

Getting here needs planning. Direct flights from London-Stansted to Asturias airport run summer-only; outside peak season, fly to Santander and drive 90 minutes west. Car hire proves essential – buses connect Colunga to Gijón twice daily, but services stop early evening and don't reach mountain villages or dinosaur sites. Petrol stations close Saturday afternoons and all day Sunday – fill up Friday if weekend exploring features in plans.

The Honest Verdict

Colunga works brilliantly as a base for exploring eastern Asturias, less successfully as a standalone destination. Three days here mixes beach time with mountain drives, fossil hunting and cider-fuelled evenings, but longer stays require self-sufficiency. Independent travellers who rent flats and cook local produce will find their groove; those expecting resort infrastructure should look elsewhere.

The village rewards curiosity. Chat with fishmongers about yesterday's catch, accept invitations to family cider houses, follow handwritten signs to rural cheese makers. These encounters create memories that outlast dinosaur footprints and sunset photos. Just remember: low tide reveals more than prehistoric secrets – it also exposes Colunga's true character, shaped by geography, weather and people who've learned to thrive where mountains meet sea.