The dogged, restless spirit that is the Trekkers has, in recent years, employed new ways and means to find an interesting “scratch” for its notoriously itchy feet; and in the latest chapter of the Trekkers’ story thirteen of its members found themselves in the Picos mountains in north-west Spain in August 2009. Our base for the week was a picturesque hotel nestled in lush and largely uninhabited countryside – and reached by a narrow and fiendishly steep road. Nevertheless, a bus crawled courageously down this as we gathered in the driveway before the hotel on the very first morning of the holiday. We enjoyed the company of a number of fidgety chickens strutting confidently over the gravel – a confidence which could be attributed to the presence of a Labrador who kept the surrounding gardens free of foxes and other potential predators. I ought to digress at this point to mention that these gardens were abounding with a whole variety of vegetables: onions, cabbages, French beans, strawberries, artichokes, potatoes, blackcurrants, raspberries – to name but a few. The owner of the hotel lovingly nurtured this colourful crop, and it formed the basis of the salads, soups and sauces dished up to us for our evening meals. The hotel truly adopted a “good life” approach to all things, and even the soap and shampoo provided in the bathrooms consisted of a special homemade concoction.

We boarded the bus, and it brought us by a long, winding, vertigo-inducing route to the beginning of the walk. We disembarked at a small mountain village. Many of the farm buildings in the Picos are built on squat, wooden “stilts”, with a wheel-shaped rock between each stilt and the building above – the purpose of which is to keep out rats and other vermin. We left the village behind, hiking uphill through fields and farmyards, and came at length to a forest of mature beech trees. A lingering morning mist rendered the trees eerie and mysterious, until we crossed the timber-line to grassy open ground.

At this stage, we came upon a small herd of cattle and the solemn tolling of their bells – in the Picos these creatures are often permitted to wander high up into the mountains. Among them also were several handsome, thickset horses, who, like the cattle, are at liberty to roam wherever they please – in the past the horses were used for carrying loads about the hills but they now enjoy a semi-wild existence. (Other curious encounters with the animal kingdom during the holiday included soaring griffon vultures, tales of wolves and wild boars, a dead viper, some of the most enormous slugs I’ve ever seen, and a long, involved, post-dinner discussion on the finer points of bee-keeping.)

Leaving the horses behind us, we paused for lunch, and then set about tackling the summit. Doing so brought us by narrow, slightly hair-raising paths – and at times we were compelled to scramble on all fours – but eventually we reached the bare ridge of Jario Peak. The mist which had been so stubborn earlier in the day had now moved aside to reveal distant green slopes and undulations, many of them crested with pinnacles of naked rock – the perfect backdrop for some suitably impressive photographs! Our guide, Alberto, was able to identify the various surrounding peaks, each of which seemed to be connected to some tale of daring and adventure. Alberto’s passion for the outdoor life was such that although he was indeed a full-time mountain guide, his days off were spent wandering over the very same hills and dales. Some of Alberto’s stories involved potholers as well as mountaineers, and apparently the Picos are a paradise for this type of activity.

Finally, we retraced our steps back to the trees and a hut which we had passed hours earlier, and we stopped for a well-earned drink. There is a gimmick in northern Spain whereby the locally brewed cider is poured from a bottle held high overhead to a glass held at waist-height – but none of us were in the mood for such nonsense (besides, it would have been highly hazardous to do so with scalding hot coffee, which is what most of us were drinking.) This hut was certainly a cosy affair, with a large stove and beds up in the rafters, and it almost seemed a pity to have to move on at all.

As we left the hut and made our way back through the forest to the mountain village where we began and our awaiting bus, the heavens opened and it became a good idea to put on some extra clothes (which was in sharp contrast to a walk some days later on a certain beach – but I won’t go into that here), and we were then subjected to a boisterous performance of thunder and lightning. However, with the day’s walking behind us, our spirits could not be dampened and the fat rain-drops simply made thoughts of a hot shower and evening meal all the more welcome.