Nava

The first thing that strikes you is the smell: sharp, yeasty, drifting from doorway vents at ten in the morning. In Nava, cider isn't a weekend novelty—it's the village bloodstream. Tankers rumble through the stone streets slopping fermented apple juice between family llagares, and every other shopfront is either a bar or a supplier of plastic fermentation vats. At 500 m above sea level, 30 km inland from the Cantabrian coast, the place feels closer to Devon than to the Mediterranean clichés most Brits associate with Spain.

Start in the compact centre. The 17th-century Santa María church squats like a referee in the middle of the main square, its weather-softened limestone proof that rain here is a year-round fixture. A slow five-minute lap takes you past the bakery (opens 07:30, almond biscuits €4.50 a quarter-kilo) and the agricultural co-op where farmers queue for fertiliser alongside teenagers buying energy drinks. The architecture won't make a guide-book cover, but that's the point: Nava functions first, poses for photos second.

To understand the obsession, duck into the Museo de la Sidra on Calle del Medio. Admission is €6, English audio guide another €1, and the 45-minute circuit explains why Asturian apples have more tannin than eating varieties, why barrels are built from chestnut not oak, and why locals insist on the theatrical one-armed pour that leaves half the glass as froth. At 13:00 staff run free "escanciado" lessons in the courtyard; even teetotallers end up laughing as cider arcs onto the gravel. The museum shop stocks 33 cl tin bottles—airport security-friendly if you're flying hand-luggage only from Oviedo.

Outside, the hills close in. Soft, cow-nibbled ridges climb to 900 m within a 6 km radius, every slope stitched with dwarf apple trees tied to wooden stakes. The PR-AS-181 footpath, sign-posted "Ruta de las Pomaradas", leaves from the football ground and does a gentle 8 km loop through orchards and hamlets. Expect stone hórreos on stilts, black-faced Asturian sheep and, in May, blossom snowstorms that drift across the lane like confetti. After rain—which is often—trail shoes are essential; the red clay sticks to soles like wet biscuit mix.

Serious walkers can keep going into the Sierra de Peñamayor. A forestry track behind the cemetery climbs 600 m in 4 km to the summit meadow, where views stretch north to the Atlantic on clear days. The ascent is calf-burning but way-marked, and griffon vultures circle overhead almost year-round. In winter the ridge sometimes carries snow while the village stays green; bring layers because Atlantic weather arrives fast.

Back at street level, lunch runs to local proteins plus cider. Chuletón for two—an Asturian rib-eye the size of a shoebox—appears on every bar chalkboard, priced €28-32 per kilo. Order it "al punto" if you like rare; anything more offends the grill man. Fabada, the regional bean and chorizo stew, is mild and tomato-sweet, but specify "ración" (sharing plate) unless you fancy main-lining 800 calories solo. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and the local blue cheese, Cabrales, crumbled over pasta. Portions are hefty; Asturians still work the land and eat accordingly.

Drinking etiquette: buy one bottle (€3-4, 700 ml) per round, not per glass. The server will leave it so you can pour; if you ask for "una copa de vino" the room goes quiet. Cider bottles empty in three glugs—anything longer brands you a tourist. Pace yourself; alcohol hovers around 6%. Bars open 08:00 for coffee, close 15:30-17:30, then reopen until 23:30. Kitchens shut 17:00-20:30, so plan dinner after 21:00 or you'll be hunting crisps.

A car unlocks the surrounding parishes. Five minutes south-west lie Pendones and Tresali, where 18th-century grain stores balance on mushroom-shaped legs among apple terraces. Pull over, walk the lane ten minutes, photograph nothing in particular, then drive on. Public buses link Nava to Oviedo (€2.20, 35 min) and Villaviciosa (20 min) but run only every 90 minutes; Sunday service is skeletal. If you're relying on wheels, fill the tank on Saturday evening—village garages close Sundays and the nearest 24-hour pumps are back on the A-8 coast motorway.

Festivals turn the volume up. The Fiesta de la Sidra (first weekend of July) ships in 50,000 visitors, erects a plastic marquee the size of a football pitch and sells cider by the litre until 03:00. Book accommodation two months ahead or you'll bed down in Oviedo. Autumn brings the apple harvest and the Amagüestu food fair—roast chestnuts, honey, chorizo cooked in cider smoke. Winter is quiet, misty, inexpensive; some rural casas rurales drop to €45 a night including breakfast, but check heating because nights drop to 2 °C.

The downsides? Rain is measured in metres not millimetres—Nava soaks up 1,200 mm annually, double Manchester. A Tuesday in January can feel deserted; cafés keep Spanish hours but half the shops shutter for siesta stretch. English is patchy—learn "una sidra, por favor" and download an offline translator. Mobile coverage fades once you leave the main road, so screenshot maps before walking.

Stay two nights and you'll fall into the rhythm: morning coffee at Casa Balbina, museum visit, orchard walk, three-course lunch, siesta while clouds scrape the ridge tiles, evening cider crawl, late dinner of rice pudding thick with cinnamon. Third-generation locals still greet the barman by his first name; visitors who attempt the one-armed pour earn a respectful nod even when half the glass ends up on the floor.

Nava won't change your life, but it might recalibrate your idea of Spain. No coastline, no flamenco, no Gaudí—just apples, cows and a community that measures time in fermentation cycles. Arrive with waterproof shoes and an empty stomach; leave with damp cuffs and a suitcase that smells like a Somerset cider barn.