A fan of Asturias (Holiday 4/14)

€20 a head for breakfast at the hotel in St. Jean de Luz seemed a bit steep, so we checked out, threw everything in the car, and wandered back down the hill to town. It was a nicely civilised start to the day, people-watching outside a café with a coffee and a croissant, from a group of six or seven guys, all late 50s or early 60s, seemingly presided over by the most gangster-looking bloke I've ever seen, with them looking at one point at the merits of a fold-out knife one produced from a small leather pouch; to the delightful old guy who could hardly walk, but who secured a table, placed a large order, deposited his walking stick, and then produced a small mobile phone. A brief call and he was soon joined by a lady friend for breakfast. Life was gently moving on.

Not so gentle for us. Cakes obtained from Maison Adam, we meandered back to the car and were on our way. 20 minutes later, with no fanfare, we were in Spain. Damn you Schengen and your creation of easy movement between member countries.

The first service station stop confirmed my language concerns, as I used the wrong word for a type of sandwich (Duolingo hadn't gone as far as the difference between un sandwich and un bocadillo); was confounded by the speedy response; and had to resort to a bit of pointing and hand waving. This could become a theme for this journal, and for that I apologise in advance.

The motorway across the top of Spain is a mite more chaotic than through France, in no small part due to its crazy ascents, descents and curves. It's an astonishing feat of engineering, as it passes through hillsides and leaps valleys in ugly concrete jumps.

The scenery is impressive as hills climb immediately from the sea, towering in green to our left. It all looks vaguely Scottish at times. As we turn off the main route, for the last 25 minutes or so to Posada del Valle, just above the small village of Collia, the effect intensifies with the hills now all around us.

The hotel is perched on the side of one, with a perfect view of another across the valley, and distance-hazed multiples beyond. It's owned by an ex-pat English couple, but a lovely Spanish lady greets us and speaking slowly, we're able to make choices for dinner and get shown to the room. As we fetch things in from the car it becomes clear the clientèle is heavily leant towards England, with only one group of Aussies (and a sole American with them), and a Dutch couple to break the monopoly in the 12 room establishment. Despite my Spanish language woes there's a slightly odd disappointment in finding out that while here we're effectively going to be in a little offshoot of England.

Settled in there's a chance to head out for a walk around the hotel, off up the hill and into the valley to visit a small chapel. It's reminiscent of East Lothian, bizarrely. Until we hit a small stream, with some stunning damselflies, then we know we're somehow completely different.

We loop round with Jays irritatingly calling ahead of us (as they usually do). It's just nice to have the time to get out into the fresh air, to see some wildlife, and hear the bird calls.

Back at the hotel dinner does down well, after drinks on the terrace, where we chat with an older couple from Cornwall. Afterwards in the lounge we sit next to the same couple, and continue the conversation. There's something really nice about talking with them, relaxing away into the evening, and they're gloriously entertaining - either finishing each other's sentences or speaking over each other to finish thoughts.