Sunday was another walk, this time it was a Federation day. It was the day of Saint Bernard de Menthón, who's the patron saint of Mountaineers (I gather). The walk was planned by the federation of Asturian mountain groups, and was attended by a few hundred people. We arrived at a tent in some fog, twenty Km south of Oviedo, in the area called Morcín. There we collected some food (they provided a preñao (a roll stuffed with a chorizo) an apple, some water and desert cheese (a plastic dish filled with sweetened cream cheese). Then we stood around chatting for an hour while more people arrived. At last someone (Ignacio, I think, our group's president) said vamos and we vamossed.

The mountain is called Monsacro, literally sacred mountain, and is a Lakeland sized chunk of limestone, it's on the edge of the mountain range and is dramatically isolated. It was a steep ascent up to a pass in the middle of the mountain, and it was an impressive sight, a few hundred walkers snaking up and down, slowly ascending a 60 degree slope with many cries of 'they never said it was hard' and 'blimey that's steep'. At the top we got a cracking view to the north, from the industrial chimneys of Soto de Ribera and Oviedo itself with the cathedral and the palacio del congressos clearly visible, to the far north and the sea. It wasn't a completely clear day but it was clear enough to know that, on a good day, you would have unforgettable views.

After the summit we headed down to a high meadow, where there were a couple of capillas (chapels). These chapels were important to the Asturians because, when the Moors threatened, the two sacred relics which had arrived in 808 from Jerusalem via Toledo (in actual fact, two crosses, La Victoria and Los Angeles, one of which appears on the Asturian flag), were taken to safety from Oviedo to these chapels, or the sites that these chapels would later take. There they were looked after for 80 years until the guards got bored and took them back to Oviedo to find that while they were gone no one had done the washing up and the place had gone to pot.

So in the field, the devout went off to have a mass and bless the crosses, the less than devout stood around keeping an eye on the weather and drinking sidra, for in the field, in the middle of nowhere, the organisers had converted a stone barn into a bar. Which was nice of them.

After the mass we all trundled off down into Santolaya, a town to the north of the mountain. Trundled is perhaps the wrong word. Delicately picked our way down wet limestone on a steep narrow zig zag path, is a better way of putting it, although when we hit the road at at the end of the path we definitely trundled, and picked almost ripe cherries from roadside trees. At the bottom, in the town, they had a big barbeque set up so there was a little more sidra, some meat and then some music.

John, they said, you're the newest member of the group, that means you have to get up and dance. Tell me when, I said, although I'm warning you, I can't dance. What's this playing now, I asked. They looked at me like you would a child, that's the paso doble, they said, as though I should know. Eventually they took pity on me and Sabi, the woman who sorts out the photos on the web site, said, you have to learn some time, and showed me how to paso doble (well, actually she laughed a lot while I demonstrated two left feet) while a dozen of the others moved around with the skill that comes from many years experience. Then the music changed to a cumbia and I was very much out of my depth.  ¶ 6:44 PM