After our relaxing day in Gijón, we hit the road for a short jaunt to Cudillero, a picturesque fishing village that seemed like the perfect place to continue our coastal adventure. The drive was an easy one, the kind where you can almost forget you’re driving and just enjoy the scenery. The lush green hills and sparkling sea kept us company as the Pug hummed along.
We arrived in Cudillero mid-afternoon and found a car park near the harbour. It wasn’t fancy, but it was close to everything we wanted to see. After settling in, we set off on foot to explore. The village is a postcard come to life, reminded us of Padstow in Cornwall. Colourful houses clinging to the hillsides, narrow streets winding their way upward, and fishing boats bobbing in the water below. It were bloody steep though.
Going for Dinner
After a short but steep climb, we reached the heart of the village. It didn’t take long to discover that most of the restaurants wouldn’t open until 8 PM. With a few hours to kill, we found a bar in the square and decided to pass the time with a couple of beers. The bar was lively, filled with locals and lots of Dutch people who seemed to know everyone (they have taken over Spain it seems), and tourists like us soaking up the atmosphere. The beer was cold, the chatter was cheerful, and the time passed easily.
By the time we wandered back to chez nous, the hunger was beginning to set in. As Mary debated whether to wait for the restaurants or whip up something simple in the van, I had a brainwave. “Why don’t I catch our dinner?” I said, gesturing toward the harbour.
Mary raised an eyebrow. “With what, exactly?”
I proudly produced the fishing rod I’d picked up at a supermarket back in Gijón. “It’s time to put my hunter-gatherer skills to use,” I said, ignoring her sceptical look.
Fishing in the Harbour
With my rod in hand and a head full of misplaced confidence and misplaced hunter-gatherer feelings I made my way to the harbour. The water was calm, the evening air crisp but mild enough, and for a moment, I felt like a proper fisherman. I cast my line with all the enthusiasm of someone who has no idea what they’re doing. But, my grandfather was a fisherman. It’s in the blood.
The first few attempts were… let’s call them practice. My line tangled, my bait fell off, and more than once, I nearly toppled into the water. Mary, watching from the van, was in stitches. “You’re supposed to catch the fish, not entertain them!” she called out. Oh how I laughed.
Things went from bad to worse when my patience ran out. In a moment of frustration, I yanked the rod back with too much force, and before I knew it, the entire thing flew out of my hands and into the water. I stood there, stunned, as it sank out of sight.
“Well,” I said, turning back to Mary with a sheepish grin, “I guess it’s sandwiches for dinner.”
A Humbling Evening
Back in the van, Mary couldn’t stop laughing. “You’re a natural, Kevin,” she teased, echoing her words from our fishing trip in Gijón. This time, though, I couldn’t even argue.
We ended up sharing a simple meal of bread, cheese, and olives, which tasted far better than it had any right to. Sitting in the van, windows open to the cool evening breeze, we laughed about the day’s events and agreed that sometimes the best stories come from the worst plans.
Looking Ahead
Tomorrow, we’d explore more of Cudillero before heading further along the coast. For now, though, I was content to chalk up my fishing escapade as a lesson learned. Who needs fresh fish when you’ve got good company and a view like this?
