El Anillo de Picos
20 June 2026 — 28 June 2026
The Picos de Europa, or Peaks of Europe, are part of the Cantabrian Mountain Range, straddling the provinces of Asturias, León and Cantabria. This Spanish massif, less famous than its neighbouring range across the border, is nonetheless home to a trek that has become legendary: the Ring of the Peaks. Through the rocky summits and rolling green hills, we hope to complete the entire route in a week… But is that even possible?
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While the storm raged for much of the night a few kilometers from our campsite, we surprisingly slept well in the warm humidity of the undergrowth. Getting out of the tent at six o’clock is not easy, though; everything is still soaked from yesterday, and it takes quite a bit of courage to pull on our damp, icy clothes. I’ve clearly lost my muesli along the way, so Étienne supplies me with a brioche and the remnants of long-melted Maltesers.
The mood is good this morning. We slept well and a magnificent sunrise ignites the permanent mist that bathes the Picos de Europa. The efficiency of our duo has also improved; in about an hour, breakfast is eaten, the tent folded, gear packed. We can only make out two people who took the trail before us, that’s our little pride.
How hard it is to get out of the little bed, though not very cozy, that welcomed us for the night! A breath of already warm air sweeps through the dormitory, the smell of hot coffee is everywhere. We linger a bit over breakfast while trying to make ourselves understood by our roommates, who also seem to be doing the Anillo de Picos. It must be said that very few Spaniards speak English here, so we improvise with sign language.
As the mercury is about to hit forty degrees in Bordeaux in the coming days, what better than to escape this boiling pot to go to Cantabria, where the sea air, mixed with that of the mountains, creates a much milder microclimate.
Around nine o’clock, my friend Étienne and I set off on a journey of about seven hours by car, through the Landes, the Basque Country, and then the Spanish coast. When we leave France, the car already shows thirty-four degrees. Yet, in the twists of the Spanish motorway that snakes along the industrial coast, we drop to twenty-two.