I had been at the gateway of the Picos de Europa when at Covadongo the celebrated place of pilgrimage. Since then the desire had never left me to become acquainted with this demure mountain beauty so alluring and yet so stand-offish in her loneliness. Thus I started for the mountains. My path led me from Unquera through the Deva valley to Potes at the foot of the Picos. I very soon noticed that my task would be no easy one, for shortly after leaving Panes the track winds through a mighty and deep valley known as the Desfiladero de la Hermida. My reception was not a friendly one. The rocky guardian of the valley looked down and frowned at me, and the sky treated me at intervals to a cold shower-bath. In Potes the clouds were low down on the mountain sides on which I was going to test my prowess the next day. But I was so enchanted with the spot, that I willingly renounced the view for that day. The little town is a very ancient spot. It must once have been the seat of many a knightly family. This is attested to by the various Spanish coats of arms on the houses. But those times are now no more. Where once Spanish grandees strutted by with buckled shoes and sword, clodhopping peasants plod along. And the present generation is hardly aware of the plentitude of beauty surrounding it. Bold bridges span the glen. Narrow colonades with overhanging balconies cling to the steep river bank. A multitude of archways offer innumerable enchanting glimpses. A high watch-tower guards the houses clustering at its base. Before the sun had risen on the morrow I had set out. Dark and dismal-looking clouds hung low over the landscape. But the Picos pinnacles had rent them asunder, and suddenly they stood forth in the glory of the rising sun. Dark night lay behind me as I marched towards the sunlight. My guide met me by arrangement at Espinama. He was a grey-headed man with weather-beaten face and smiling eyes. His feet were clad in leather sandals, and under his arm was an ancient umbrella. We soon discussed the itinerary, filled our _rucksacks_ and started for the Puerto de Aliva. The old song came back to me:-- The sun on my way In his golden array Is my fellow and guide. He casts my shadow O’er flowery meadow. I wander world-wide. As we passed on our way, the houses of the village became smaller and smaller. We soon left the last tree behind, and our path led over sweet green slopes, till they too were lost under the stony debris of rocky giants. There was a hunting-lodge close to the foot of the Peña vieja cliff which the king of Spain visits nearly every year when chamois hunting.