Molino del Canto (Holiday 7/14)

Time to move on from Posada del Valle in the Asturias. And there's a mixed 'sad but glad' to it. I think three nights was enough. You see, while it's in a great location, and an area I'd like to explore some more, it doesn't feel.... Spanish.

Out and about we're undoubtedly in Spain, and can immerse, and learn, and see new things. Back at the hotel, it's Britain. There's an internal guilt to feeling this way, because Nigel has been a ridiculous bundle of energy, coming round the tables at breakfast every morning to find out what you're doing, offering maps, and advice; and still holding court in the evening. But that's the thing, into darkness, with no view to inform where you might be, and it feels like a little English village inn. 

That's not a bad thing (we'll be staying in one on our way back north), but I'm in Spain. I want to feel like I'm in Spain. At dinner English is the first language, trying to speak Spanish to Nigel (who is obviously fluent) would sound vaguely ridiculous. Sitting in the reception/bar, or lounge, after dinner and you end up reluctantly eavesdropping on conversations about people trying to sell their house on the M3 corridor; or considering buying a new car and torn between the Audi or Volvo SUVs.

Of course these sorts of conversations would likely be happening around us in Spanish if we were surrounded by locals, or if we were in France I'd even be able to understand them, but it still becomes local insights, and local gripes, not simply a transference of Blighty to Spain. And it's very much that southern influence as well (I overhear a loud chap from the Home Counties explaining that in Scotland they're trying to reintroduce wolves, and that Scotland is too small for that, and that there's a reason they died out 'up there' in the first place which, apparently, is because their food changed - it's just like being down a pub with one loud guy at the end of the bar who is an expert on abso-bloody-lutely everything).

And then, coming down to dinner last night, I overheard the tail end of a conversation complaining about immigrants. And if there's one thing I don't want on a holiday, it's having the Daily Mail making an appearance, especially when we're in a foreign country that people can get to more easily because of the very ease of movement they're complaining about. And then a wine bore turned up.

So like I say. Bittersweet....

We're heading to Castile y Léon, and an amazing plateau, sitting a little over 1,000 metres, with deep canyons and valleys peppering its perimeter. It's promised to be truly out in the middle of nowhere, an area where Spanish families come back to in the summer, but outwith the summer season you have villages with one permanent resident. In short, my kinda place. Especially the guesthouse, the 6-bedroomed Posada Molino del Canto, a former mill, run by Javier, with his wife Valvarena. And Javier is a birder. 

It feels truly remote, a rocky escarpment high above, with, bingo, vultures cruising about. Sitting outside with a beer Javier appears with his daughter Carlota, who is about 7 or 8. She's shy, but Javier says she wants to ask us something. He coaxes her in Spanish, explaining it'll be good to help her practice her English. I'm worried when she speaks that we won't actually understand, but the question comes. "When is the best time to see the Nessie monster?" I reply that it's June, when he sunbathes on the beaches around the loch. She gains confidence as Javier wanders off, and starts to explain why she loves living in the countryside rather than the city (it's so she can have a BIG dog), before she's called to help with preparation for the evening.

We're joined a little later by the group of 6 Aussies that were at the last place, and a couple of English ladies. We're obviously all on the same itinerary, and despite what I was saying about being surrounded by Brits, or English speakers, at the last place, this is a good group, and with our hosts, and the seclusion, this is feeling more like it. Even more so at dinner, where we are fed like kings, and Valvarena comes out and obviously doesn't speak any English. Nothing else for it but to try the Spanish. She's wonderfully patient, speaks back slowly, and there's a feeling growing of simply being in someone's home. Which in effect we are.

I think I'm going to like this place.

(oh, another new bird for me, Marsh Tits visiting the feeders dotted about outside).