Saturday, September 5

This morning brings a gift—the sun is shining over Oviedo!  After five days of mist and drizzle and damp and cold and gray gray clouds, I have never seen anything lovelier. Sleeping late, it is 10:00 a.m. as we sip our coffee and nibble on last night’s purchased pastry, basking in the sunlight and the thought of its warming rays. Not wanting to waste such a day, Michael suggests a trip up Mount Naranco to see the other two pre-Romanesque churches in Oviedo. I think we will drive.  Michael suggests walking.

I look down at my nightgown and robe, silently calculating how long it will take me to get ready.  The numbers aren’t good. “It will take an hour to walk there…at least. It says that both churches close at 1:30 for lunch.”

“Well then, I guess you better hurry.”

I know it will be all uphill, but still, we hit the pavement by 11 a.m.   I have changed twice worrying about being cold, then worrying about being hot, remembering San Miguel in the sunshine at 70 degrees when I stripped down to my tank top. Today, I have on three layers.  A poncho of sorts—acrylic I think, over a linen knit open weave sweater, over a white long sleeve T-shirt. I think I am set.

The Way to Mount Naranco

We walk up the short length of Calle Uria to the train station—where we cheat—riding two escalators to the top where there is a broad plaza.

“Where do we go from here?”  I ask.

“Up those steps.”

There are a lot of steps, going through the park and to the park.  I see benches that beckon.  Michael doesn’t believe in stopping till we reach the top.  Exhausted I slump on a bench across from a beautiful stone church.  The colors are gorgeous against the brilliant blue sky.  The rare brilliant blue sky.

 We continue walking, around the church, through the suburbs.  Oviedo is lovely.  Absolutely lovely—all of it.  We walk in a wide arc till we reach Avenida de los Monuments where we turn right and continue walking on an even broader arc that slowly crawls up the mountain.  We reach a point in the road where we have a choice: walking along the highway or following a trail through the woods.  It isn’t a hard choice. As I step onto the muddy path I wonder if we have made the right one.  But then we hear the bells.  Attached to sheep and cows, they beckon us forward — up the hill.  By this time I am carrying my poncho.

 We reach a crossroads.  I think we should turn right—Google maps says to turn right.  Michael says we should cross the road and continue on the trail.  A native Oviedoite walks our way.  Michael can communicate in Spanish when he really wants to.   We cross the road.  Halfway up this trail, I am down to my white long-sleeved T-shirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbow.  The walk has been all uphill — no flat path anywhere. It is cool.  I am hot.

 

Santa Maria del Naranco

At the information casa we find that the next tour doesn’t start till 1 p.m.  We spend the spare thirty minutes looking at the displays, barely making it up the steepest part of the hill in time to purchase tickets and take the tour.

A couple hands us their phone asking for us to take a picture.

I look at them through the camera’s eye of their phone.  The husband says in heavily accented English, “Don’t worry about the wife—it is the church I want.”

I think the story of my life in Spain will be the number of high bridges we cross, the number of tunnels we drove through, and the number of steep steps—without railings—that I have to ascend and descend—hugging a wall when it exists. The steps before me are tall and steep and seem uneven. I try hard not to be a grandma.

Santa Maria del Naranco, built in 848, was used as a royal chamber where royal councils of the court of King Ramiro would meet.  The Romans came and turned it into baths.  Now it is a church used for baptisms and weddings.  Its narrow width soars. It is elegant and lean. The steps are as steep as I feared.

Passing through the door, carefully stepping down, it feels like walking into light and air.  A barrel vaulted ceiling towers above us.  All of the windows, mostly open, are protected by wood so weathered it is fringed at the bottom of the shutters. Views of the lush countryside of Asturias surround us.

San Miguel de Lillo

We have to climb higher to the second church—built to be a church—San Miguel de Lillo.  I think it a strange size—quite small—till I discover that half of it crumbled when the ground gave way beneath it.  No pictures are allowed in the interior. I make a mental note to check the Internet.

Lunch at Vista Alegre

We make our way down the mountain, taking the road with a hairpin turn, stopping at Vista Alegre for lunch and vino.  This is not a tourist trap — at least not one for Americans. iTranslate and I are busy deciphering the menu on the wall.  Cachopo doesn’t translate, so I Google it. A thin piece of veal, sliced thinner, stuffed with thinly sliced cheese and thinly sliced Jamon, breaded, fried and topped with mushrooms I recognize but cannot name. Mike orders what looks like an entire ham, but isn’t.  Thank goodness for bones.  I cannot finish my half order of cachopo.

 

 The clouds are back in full force — the air has chilled — and I am dressed in all three layers again as we make our way along the trails, reacquainting ourselves with the local livestock.

By the time we reach our apartment Michael’s FIT-BIT  tells him we have walked over six miles.

We are too done for dinner.