The road snakes up the mountainside above Covadonga towards the lakes of Enol and Ercina. A pair of eagles glide in slow synchrony against the infinite expanse of blue framed by the window of the bus. Access to the lakes is limited during much of the year, and private cars are not permitted during those times, which, given the precariousness of the road, might not be such a bad idea. A coach toppled off the road on 31 July this year causing serious injury to several of those on board (fortunately, no one died) when the vehicle made way for a passing car.
There is no way to avoid being a tourist on days like this: you buy your ticket and join the queue. There is no jostling for position. Most of the tourists are Spanish, as Covadonga is a site of national importance (see my last post) and as a rule, the Spaniards are respectful queuers. On the bus there is muted conversation as we climb and climb; some take photos of the scenery on their phones, others selfies with a scenic background; astonishing how, one way or another, almost all of us are in thrall to our phones until the signal dies, and beyond . . .
But once you have disembarked, and chosen a route to follow, the numbers thin out and there is plenty of space for everyone. Mrs Blanco and I decide on a modest five mile circumnavigation of the lakes that we find on the Wikiloc app, a walk that offers spectacular views without great exertion.
Everything falls into place. Up here, even the cattle are chilled. There is a majesty to the setting that puts a temporary halt to the racing of my monkey mind, and that is something. Although I try to curb the internal dialogue when I walk, it is still almost always there, babbling on like a tinkling brook. But up here, it quells itself and ebbs away for a couple of hours, and a kind of peace descends on us.
And in the confluence of sky and mountain it becomes apparent, if only for a while, that the world is an act of the imagination. Perhaps, for some of us, that is what meant by God.
