Comillas, Cantrabria

After a night of rain, the surf pounding the rocks below, we awoke this morning to the most beautiful view. A sea of ​​​​turquoise blue with patches of dark navy, topped with white crested waves, sat under a thin early morning strip of white cloud which danced above the beach. A day away from the wheel had been great. Time to recharge and plan our onward journey. The forecast today was not looking good further along the coast, so we found a place to stay about three hours away. Our drive along a dual carriageway that we always call the 'top road', as it runs between the sea and the mountains of northern Spain, took us up and over the hills.

Some pretty big hills. On one, we found ourselves engulfed by a blanket, no duvet, of thick white cloud. Markers along the edge of the road read up orange or red depending on the visibility. When they changed to red and we lost sight of the van in front of us it all became a little 'hairy scary'. Descending out of the murk we were relieved it hadn't also been raining. The low cloud continued to linger, obliterating the tops of the Picos Europa that sat to put right, their dark forms spooky in the low light. We found our stop and ate lunch, both deciding it wasn't much of a place to spend a damp afternoon, and decided to set off to Comillas where there was an aire with toilets and showers for sixteen euros per night! Half the price of a campsite. That's if anything had been open. The season in this area doesn't appear to begin until June 1st. The aire was fantastic. First impressions, it seemed a little 'odd', but once Margery was settled with just six other vans we used the facilities. The showers we exceptional. Mind you any shower is to us when we happen upon one. Late evening, our stomachs full of Asturias stew we walked down to the beach.

Despite a very large sign with a red cross through the picture of a motorhome, some vans were parked up. A hire van was parked where we parked our Marge on our last visit here. We stopped and spoke with the two French girls in it. Discussing speaking different languages. Portuguese is almost impossible, Spanish we probable know a dozen words, and French, of which Angela has a good enough grasp to get by. One of the girls made us laugh when she commented that she doesn't speak to French people outside of France, as she can speak to them back in her homeland.

Now late, darkness falling we photographed a surprising sunset over the town. Angry black clouds threatening a deluge, we made tracks to return to Margery quickly.