We’d just crossed into Asturias when the air changed. It always does. Thicker, cleaner somehow. Like the clouds have just had a wash and hung themselves up to dry on the mountain tips.
Markus called it “perfect trail weather.” He said it with that look. The one that means I’m about to regret whatever we’re doing.
He was already wearing his running vest at breakfast.
The goal was simple: explore the Picos. Get in, run a few beautiful trails, don’t die, get out. What actually happened was three days of arguing with rocks, watching sheep blink sideways at us, and pretending this was fun.
Day one. Ruta del Cares.
Everyone bangs on about this trail. The “Divine Gorge.” It starts gently enough. A light breeze. Some cheerful walkers in jeans and optimistic backpacks. But then the path starts to narrow and the drop beside it just… happens. One wrong step and you’re a dinner story for the local vultures.
At one point, Markus said, “Don’t look down.” So of course I did. Regret has a very specific sound when it hits the back of your throat.
We made it, though. Twelve kilometres of cliff, water, dust, and one very territorial goat who clearly thought the path belonged to him. No sign. No warning. Just him. Standing there like a bouncer outside a sweaty nightclub. We took the long way around.
Next day. We tried to be heroes. Went full ‘mountain spirits’ and ran from Sotres up to the Refugio Urriellu.
Spoiler: there is no oxygen up there. Only rocks, clouds, and the distant echo of your own knees failing.
Markus said, “It’ll be fine. Steady incline. We’ll find our rhythm.” He lies so casually now I barely even notice.
Somewhere around hour three, I sat on a flat stone and stared at nothing for about seven minutes. Not meditating. Just buffering.
The refugio appeared like a trick. It felt like a dream you wake up from and forget instantly. Except there were snacks, and we inhaled them like cave people.
We didn’t talk much on the way down. My legs had stopped working and Markus was nursing a blister the size of a baby fig.
By the third day we’d forgotten who we were. Did the Lakes of Covadonga circuit to “recover.”
A cow chased us. That’s not a joke.
It was small but aggressive and clearly had something to prove.
The fog rolled in halfway through and turned the landscape into a screensaver from 2002. Pretty, but disorienting. Markus dropped his phone in something squelchy. I pretended not to care. I did care.
Still, that trail. Unreal. Quiet. Soft underfoot. Patches of silence so pure they felt like music. We ran slower. Stopped more. Might’ve cried a bit but let’s not make it a thing.
Some actual advice. Though you probably won’t take it.
Don’t eat blue cheese before running. Your mouth won’t forgive you.
Carry poles. Yes, even if you think you’re tough. This isn’t Instagram. This is limestone and regret.
Tell someone where you’re going. Because phone signals vanish the second you start getting smug.
Take a tiny towel. Dry feet are happiness.
Don’t trust the trail signs. They lie like middle-aged men in cycling shorts.
So yeah, the Picos broke us a little. In a good way. Like a song you didn’t understand the first time you heard it but keeps playing in your head for days.
We’ll be back.
Probably.
Unless Markus picks another “gentle ascent” and forgets the snacks again.
I won’t link you to anything official. You’ve got the internet. But if you’re desperate for routes, AllTrails is decent. The maps are wrong sometimes but at least they’re pretty.
Next up? Cádiz. I hear the trails are flatter. But Markus has that look again, so who knows.