Campervan Therapy

My well-battered book map of Spain is a go-to when we need a campsite with a view. I just look for the tent symbol and a green edged road. That’s how I find Camping Iturbero, in Lumbier.

By the River Salazar and surrounded by the foothills of the Pyrenees, the town clings to the cliff above. The only sound at night? The rushing river.

We set off along the walking track for 1.5 miles to the Foz de Lumbier, or the mouth of Lumbier, a spectacular gorge.

I usually panic in gorges. Once too often I’ve found myself clinging to the rock walls, vertigo kicking in, as well as fear that in a moment of recklessness I may sling myself over the side.

This time the old railway track half-way down the gorge feels safe and I’m distracted by the vultures swooping into their cave-nests in the rock face.

Sand-martins dip and dive through the air, also disappearing into fissures in the rock face. The limestone and russet cliffs are a work of art in themselves. Butterflies flutter among juniper, rosemary, broom, and mastic. The air is scented with hot pine.

Each morning we wander up to the bakery, by the Roman walls and through the alleys lined with stout stone houses in Lumbier’s Medieval centre.

Of course, our daily ritual also requires an evening stop-off for a drink at the La Cueva bar, the inside indeed being a little like a cave.

However, Lumbier presents me with an irrational moment of blind panic.  The church’s gilded altars fail to light up its interior, despite being resplendent.

I leave Himself busy photographing gratuitous religious iconography, mislay the way to the exit.

This church is not large, so this is a feat to be seen to be believe, then find myself grappling around, in panic, in complete darkness, yanking at a locked door with all my might. Finally, relieved, I emerge into the cool, evening air.

The next day we follow the track along the Salazar River, through fields of wheat, by horses standing like statues under pine trees high above the river. The crickets are camouflaged against the limestone track until they open their stunning scarlet wings.

Our trek to San Gregorio’s ruins should be uneventful, as we cross over the ancient stone bridge, by the perfect wild swimming spot.

The ruined tower of San Gregorio appears on the hills ahead, but the track narrows over a steep drop of crumbling schist cliffs. This reduces me to crab-stepping it back down to the safety of the verdant valley.

As if that’s not enough, the track passes two compounds of hunting dogs baying for our blood. One dog is so acrobatic he scales the fence, luckily another dog grabs his paw. Meanwhile a mongrel runs out of a laneway and decides I’m her best friend.

Stray dogs seem to love me, universally deciding that I’m a dog-whisperer. This one accompanies us past the baying hounds.

I can’t help thinking, though, that’s she’s also having great fun teasing them, as she gleefully urinates all around their compound.

One thing’s for certain, though, we’ll be back to visit Lumbier – it certainly has earned a place on our destination list.