San Vicente de la Barquera
We arrived at San Vicente de la Barquera after lunch, and camped in a site further along the bay, opposite the town. We pitched our tent and then walked back around the bay into the town to explore, heading down the main strip of restaurants towards the cobbled centre. The castle was open until 8:30pm, and was small but perfectly preserved. There were lots of spiralling staircases and split-level walkways, which were fun to explore. We continued along the old town walls, which began at the defensive castle, to the church at the other end.
The Iglesia Santa María de los Ángeles sits on top of a hill, in a large courtyard of pale stone. Surrounding it on all sides are clusters of smaller buildings and cloistered walkways. There are benches and seats carved into the outer walls of the courtyard, which also form the town defences. This area outside the church is a huge, flat space, and looked particularly beautiful in the softly fading light of the evening. Far below the hill, the river stretches out into the distance, and the low flat fields extend in every direction as far as the horizon.
Inside, the church lacks the long corridor-like quality of most others. The naves are very wide, giving the space a surprisingly open-plan feel. The floor is also unusual; it’s one of the last remaining churches in the area to feature wooden tombs. It was strange, walking on the soft wood rather than hard, cold stone. It made the church feel almost domestic, more informal. The paintings on each alter were beautifully crafted, the saints and saviours captured in shimmering golds and reds and blues. There was incense burning, and soft music; both a feature of every Spanish church I’ve seen so far this trip.
San Vicente de la Barquera is on the Camino Lebariego pilgrimage route to Santo Toribio, so it’s not surprising that the church has a long-standing and well established association with Camino walkers. One of the ruins near the entrance of the courtyard was the old hospital, now nothing more than a solitary archway overlooking the valley. Even today, there is a special entrance for pilgrims seeking shelter — it’s further down the hill, just beyond the historic churchyard.
For dinner we ventured back through the centre of town to the harbour, and ordered a bottle of sidra, the local cider, with our tapas. As in San Sebastian, the sidra has to be poured from a great height. When the waiter returned with the bottle, he only had one glass with him. He poured the first measure — with great theatricality — and then handed me the drink. I thought, from the amount he had given me, that this was a taste, so I took a large sip and then handed Liam the rest of the cup. But the waiter shook his head and waved for me to finish the whole thing. I managed, with only minimal chin-dripping, to knock the rest back. Then the waiter took my cup and poured another drink, this time for Liam. He showed me up and drank the whole thing in one swallow, not a drop wasted. The waiter explained that each glass of sidra is to be drunk quickly, and told us to fetch him when we wanted our next glass pouring.
This seemed to me a very pressurised and inefficient way of enjoying a drink, and I was glad when, after our next glasses, he said that we could pour our own — but only if we did it properly, from a great height. We tried, but ended up splashing most of it on the floor. I can only assume that this is, secretly, the point, and that by wasting half your drink you end up buying more. Well done, sidra-sellers of north Spain, you won this round.
