The country that grows while you drive
When you look at the map of Spain, it doesn’t look that big. Third-largest country in Europe, sure — manageable.
But Spain has a special talent: it grows by a kilometre for every one you drive.
Somewhere after the 200 km mark, your backside starts sending complaints to your brain. By kilometre 600, it gives up entirely. Numb. Emotionless. A victim of long-distance Spanish geography.
You’ve probably heard that Spain is “very different in the north and the south”. People love saying that. But let’s not believe all you hear, right?
So we didn’t. We wanted to see it.
Winter holiday. 1,000 kilometres by car. Across 4 provinces. From the south to the north — straight through Andalucía, Extremadura, Castilla y León, all the way up to Asturias.
It is also worth mentioning that we stopped for a couple of days near Salamanca.
We might be crazy, but we are not suicidal. Still, we literally opened the doors of our Ibiza and fell out of it with totally numb buttocks. For the first steps, it felt like we were learning to walk again, at least us, the older generation.
My secret northern fantasy: heating
The official goals of the trip were: scenery, greenery, food, skiing.
The unofficial goal?
Experiencing that magical fairytale moment when you come in from the freezing outdoors… and the house is actually warm.
If you live in Andalucía, you’ll understand. If you don’t, imagine this:
Outside: 17°C
Inside: 15°C
Everyone: “It’s fine. Just wear socks. And maybe a hat. Indoors.”
Central heating? Radiators on the wall? Don’t be ridiculous — we have blankets and optimism.
Extremadura gets colder, sometimes kisses 0 degrees, and still people go, “Heating? No thanks, we have air conditioning that makes noise, but it’s good enough.”
But Asturias… oh Asturias.
In Asturias, people believe in modern inventions, and heat their homes not just survive winter.
For one glorious week, I experienced something exotic:
warmer inside than outside.
I would open the door, heat would hit my face, and I would whisper: “This is civilisation.” Magic!
My dream (the secret goal of experiencing a warm home in winter) came true.
Snow, architecture, and me shouting at granaries
During our drive up north, seeing the snow-covered peaks was mesmerising. The white summits, contrasting with the green valleys, were even more striking. True screensaver material.
The iconic Asturian granaries, raised on stone stilts (“pegoyos”), with a wooden box above and a gabled roof, had me searching for more, and I turned into a yelling tourist:
“LOOK, ANOTHER ONE!”
“Yes, we know.”
“NO, BUT LOOK AT IT!”
“I’m driving!”
“SLOW DOWN, LOOK!”
They’re called hórreos, beautifully carved, built to protect grain from damp and rodents. Very practical. Very cultural. And very exciting.
For me.
I admired the architecture, stone houses with thick walls and wooden balconies, the hórreos, and the colourful, eclectic villas of the “indianos”.
The contrast between Asturias — grey stone houses in lush green valleys — and Andalucía — whitewashed houses clinging together on hilltops could not be any sharper.
I was an excited child in an adult body.
The others were… more excited about food.
The meal that could feed a small village
Enter: cachopo.
The menu says nothing. Waiter says nothing, just smiles. The smile, you don’t know if you just made another culinary mistake, or if he agrees with your great choice. Portion arrives.
It is not dinner. It is architectural infrastructure meant for a family of five + neighbours, but served to innocent individuals who simply wanted a meal and now face a life decision.
Once again, I face a wild comparison between small Andalusian tapas and a single dish served on a tray, as it does not fit on a plate. Mental note: next time, ask about portion size.
And then came my cider expectations:
Mind: sweet apple fairy drink
Reality: extremely dry apple forcing my face to involuntary movements.
My face expressed all five stages of grief in five seconds.
This is wild. I’m loving it! All of it.
Skiing: the part where everyone nearly dies
Skiing, the big thing. Just one trip to the mountains made the whole holiday memorable beyond anything else.
We drove up the foggy mountain, full of excitement and expectations. Figuring out the equipment rental and buying the ski passes was no easy task, despite my proudly earned B2 in Castellano. Totally useless. Because here, they speak Asturianu. My ears went on strike and decided to pass the message to my brain, with 50% of the success rate.
Spain, the country where you reach level B2 and immediately become A0 again by simply driving somewhere else.
The kids got really excited about getting up by cable car. However, the excitement literally froze on their faces once we stepped out.
Fog. –6°C that felt like –30°C.
Nostrils sticking together.
Everyone suddenly looks like a chain smoker thanks to the steam coming out of us.
One ride later, the little one announced her death and went to the café with Daddy to resurrect herself with hot chocolate.
My fourteen‑year‑old stayed because of honour. Then his fingers froze, and he decided the real problem in life was me.
Tears. Drama. Thermoregulation.
I was all by myself, selfishly enjoying myself, not feeling guilty at all.
When your mental panic becomes a reality
Then it happened.
Do you know the feeling when you, for a second, imagine not getting off the chairlift in time, and you end up going around the full circle?
I didn’t get off the chairlift in time. The realisation of the reality that my skis were no longer touching ground sounded the alarm in my head, too late to save my pride, but still on time to make the one‑metre leap of shame.
I landed directly on my bum, unharmed and protected by the cushy fat I have been successfully building for years. I don’t think I need to describe my attempts to stand up. Just imagine an upside‑down beetle…
From Bad to Worse
After that, my fingers refused to move, and the painful reminder of the freezing temperature forced me to go inside. I arrived just in time to watch my daughter pour hot chocolate onto herself like performance art.
And, of course, every trip needs a finale, so of course we went for one last ride… during which Daddy spectacularly got lost.
The lifts were closing. Fog thickening. Temperatures dropping. Staff were deeply unbothered by the fact that a human was missing. One more or less, who cares?
As you can imagine, I was already planning how to demand a rescue operation and rehearsing my dramatic speech about refusing to leave until he was found, alive or… less alive.
Just then, he reappeared.
He had:
✔ gone the wrong way
✔ fallen several times
✔ taken another slope entirely
✔ walked back
✔ arrived exactly as they shut the lift down
He survived.
Spain remained large. We clocked in 3,000 km in total.
And my backside is still in recovery.
Kids defrosted.
We are planning another holiday again.
If you think this was chaotic, wait until my brain takes over. From mistaking a blood moon for a raging fire in a Northern Irish mansion to genuinely believing I’d met a ghost in a medieval castle, the real danger of living abroad isn’t always geography — it’s imagination. 👉 Read the castle story here.👉 And the hamster incident here.