Reocín

The first thing you notice is the quiet. Not the eerie hush of a forgotten place, but the purposeful quiet of a village that has already done its day's work. At seven-thirty on a Tuesday morning, the only sound on Reocín's main street is the clatter of metal shutters rising outside the panadería, and the low hum of a farmer's Land Rover turning into a lane between dew-soaked meadows. Somewhere beyond the stone houses, a cockerel announces the hour with casual authority.

Reocín sits ten minutes north of Torrelavega on the old N-611, close enough to the A-67 to make it the perfect pit-stop for Brits rolling off the Santander ferry at 21:00 who cannot face another hour behind the wheel. Yet it is far enough from the coast to escape the summer traffic jams that clog Suances and Santillana. The village itself is not pretty in the postcard sense: rows of solid stone houses, a single cash-point that only works on weekdays, and a main road that still thinks it is 1973. The beauty lies around it—rolling pasture stitched together by hedgerows, the Besaya river glinting in the valley bottom, and the first slopes of the Cantabrian mountains rising like a green wall to the south.

A Valley That Works for Its Living

Cantabria's dairy belt starts here. The meadows are trimmed almost golf-course short by Friesian cattle whose milk ends up in the Queso Nata de Cantabria you will see vacuum-packed in ferry-terminal fridges. If you arrive in spring, the air smells of wet grass and wild garlic; in early autumn it smells of cider presses and woodsmoke. Either season is ideal for walking the network of farm tracks that fan out from Puente San Miguel, the largest of Reocín's scattered barrios. A circular hour-long loop heads east along the river, crosses a stone pack-horse bridge, then climbs gently through oak scrub before dropping you back opposite the church of San Juan Bautista. OS-style maps are useful: way-marking is sporadic and phone signal vanishes in the valleys.

The church itself, a sixteenth-century stone box with a disproportionately elegant baroque tower, is normally locked. A laminated notice directs you to the house of Don Jesús, three doors down, who keeps the key in an old biscuit tin. Knock loudly; he is hard of hearing but enjoys showing visitors the gilded altarpiece his grandfather restored after the 1934 revolution. There is no admission fee, though a two-euro coin for the roof fund is appreciated.

Where to Eat Without Missing the Last Shutter

Evening meals finish early. By 20:45 the single restaurant in the village centre is stacking chairs, and the bar on the corner of Calle Real stops serving food when the television switches to the regional news. British visitors who stay at Posada La Cotia, a stone farmhouse turned bed-and-breakfast on the lane to Ontaneda, learn to book half-board. Breakfast is a Cantabrian fry-up of chorizo, morcilla and eggs laid by hens you can hear through the kitchen window, plus a slab of homemade sponge cake strong enough to keep you walking until lunch. Dinner might be cocido montañés, the local white-bean and pork stew—hearty, non-spicy and ideal after a wet day on the hills. Vegetarians get a plate of pisto (Spanish ratatouille) topped with a fried egg; vegans should mention it when booking or risk cheese on everything.

If you are self-catering, the Saturday morning market in Torrelavega sells mountain honey, cider vinegar and razor-clams still twitching in seawater. The small Eroski on the main road stocks PG Tips and Marmite for the homesick, though the price of both will make you consider conversion to quesada pasiega, a lemon-scented baked cheesecake that even Spanish grandmothers buy rather than make.

Using Reocín as a Cantabrian Hub

Stay here for three nights and you can dodge the coast's summer prices without driving more than forty minutes to anything. Santillana del Mar, with its immaculate medieval stone lanes and overpriced souvenir swords, is fifteen minutes west. The replica cave of Altamira sits on the edge of the same town; timed tickets sell out days ahead in July but same-day slots are usually available for the 09:30 entry. Suances and its surf beaches take twenty minutes north on the A-8; Playa de la Concha is sandy and family-friendly, though parking costs three euros an hour from June to September and the loos resemble festival portaloos by 15:00.

Inland, the Pasiego valleys begin at Vega de Pas, half an hour south. The road corkscrews to 1,100 m, stone walls replacing hedgerows, and the air suddenly smells of pine and cow-dung. The village of Saja is a good turnaround point for drivers who find the single-track lanes nerve-wracking; walkers can continue on a signed eight-kilometre circuit past brañas—stone shepherd huts with slate roofs weighed down by rocks against the Atlantic gales. Bring a jacket even in August: cloud can roll up the valley like a cold duvet.

The Practical Bits Nobody Mentions

Fuel up in Torrelavega before you arrive. Reocín's only garage locks its pumps at 13:30 on Saturday and does not reopen until Monday. The same rule applies to cash: the village ATM belongs to a regional bank that refuses most British cards, so withdraw euros at the Santander ferry terminal or use the free machine outside the Eroski supermarket on the way in.

Sat-nav will try to route you through the old national road; accept the A-67 bypass instead, then take exit 212 signed "Puente San Miguel/Reocín". The junction is a tight loop that feels designed for articulated lorries; once mastered, it shaves ten minutes off the final stretch and saves you threading tractors in the dark.

Mobile reception is patchy in the valleys. Vodafone and Three customers get a bar or two on the main street; EE and O2 users need to stand in the church porch or drive towards the Torrelavega transmitter mast that blinks on the southern skyline at night.

When the Valley Closes for Winter

From November to March the village contracts. Bars reduce their hours, the bakery opens only in the morning, and the surrounding tracks turn to chocolate mousse after three days of rain. Yet winter has its advantages: hotel prices drop to 55 € a night including breakfast, the Santander ferry runs frequent off-peak sailings with cabin upgrades for a tenner, and you can have the stone pavements of Santillana almost to yourself under a low, silver sky. Snow is rare at village level, but the mountain road to the Pas valleys can ice over; carry chains if you plan to drive above 900 m.

Heading South Again

Leave early enough to reach the ferry with a spare hour; the A-67 merges into the A-8 just outside Torrelavega, but Sunday lunchtime traffic backs up at the Solares toll booths. Buy a jumbo quesada at the village bakery for the crossing—Cantabrian cheesecake travels better than the duty-free gin, and tastes better than anything on the onboard menu. As you climb the ramp onto the Pont-Aven, the valley you have just left is already invisible behind green folds of hill, but the smell of wet grass and woodsmoke lingers on your jacket, a reminder that somewhere between the ferry and the Picos, northern Spain still keeps ordinary hours.