We rolled into Cudillero, Asturias mid-afternoon, the van parked at an angle steep enough to make me check the handbrake twice. Houses in blues, yellows, and reds stacked up the hillside like they were clinging on. Down below, the Puerto Viejo was full of fishing boats shifting with the tide. Somewhere near the waterfront, the smell of grilled fish drifted between the narrow streets. Looked a bit like Padstow. But steeper. And with better seafood.
Killing Time the Only Way We Know How
Dinner in Asturias doesn’t happen until late. Eight o’clock’s the warm-up. I checked my watch. 6:15.
“Too early to eat,” Mary said.
“Not too early for a beer,” I said, steering us toward Plaza de la Marina before she could change her mind.
Inside, the locals leaned on the bar, talking fast. A group of Dutch holidaymakers were holding court at a table like they’d been coming here for years. (The Dutch seem to have colonised half of Spain — theory in progress.)
We got two beers and a bowl of olives, the proper kind with pits still intact. Sat outside, watching the boats and the uphill shuffle of people heading home.
Eventually the hunger crept in.
“Wait for the restaurants or make something in the van?” Mary asked.
Then I said it. “Why don’t I catch our dinner?”
She gave me a long stare, like she was deciding whether to answer at all.
“With what?”
I pulled out the fishing rod I’d bought back in Gijón.
She sighed.
Man vs. Harbour
First cast — line tangled before hitting the water. Second — bait gone on impact. Third — nearly snagged a seagull mid-swivel. Mary leaned on the van, arms folded.
“You’re supposed to catch the fish, Kevin, not scare them away,” she called from the quay.
The grand finale: one determined flick, the rod slipped from my hands and—plop—plunked into the harbour.
I just stared at the ripples. Mary couldn’t breathe from laughing.
“Sandwiches then?” I offered weakly.
A Humbling Dinner
Back in the van, she was still wiping tears from laughter.
“Didn’t you say your granddad was a fisherman?” she managed.
“Yes,” I said, buttering bread. “Guess it skipped a generation.”
So we sat with cheese, olives, bread, with the sea breeze drifting in through the door. Not the fresh catch I dreamed of, but if Cudillero taught me anything, it’s that the story’s in the foibles—not the flawless meal.
