On the Road to Gijón: Mountains, Miracles, and Burgers

San Sebastián behind us, Gijón ahead. Another stretch of Spanish motorway, and I was back to my newfound obsession with road engineering. 

“Look at this one, Mary,” I said, pointing to a massive bridge soaring over a valley. “How do they even build things like this?” 

She barely looked up from her book. “You’ve said that about every bridge we’ve crossed.” 

Fair point. But seriously—these roads. Smooth as butter, tunnels that go on forever, bridges that just defy logic. Spain’s infrastructure is on another level. I’d have carried on, but Mary hit me with that look that said, enough road talk, Kevin. 

Fair enough. 

A Random Village and the Best Cake We’ll Never Find Again 

Somewhere along the way, Mary spotted a sign for a village and suggested a detour. Why not? We had time. 

We wound our way up through tiny, twisty roads, past stone houses with wooden balconies that looked like they hadn’t changed in a hundred years. Pulled over near the square and wandered through quiet streets where nothing seemed to be happening. No tourists. No rush. Just a handful of locals going about their day. 

“This is the life,” Mary sighed. 

We found a tiny café, the kind where you can tell the same people have been drinking coffee at the same table every morning for fifty years. The owner greeted us like old friends and brought out two strong coffees and a slice of something he called “tarta de la abuela.” 

It was unbelievable. Creamy, cinnamon-y, the kind of cake you immediately regret not ordering a second slice of. I asked for the recipe. The owner just winked and said something in Spanish that I think translated to, you’ll have to come back for more

Good marketing, that. 

A Call That Changed Everything 

Back on the road, Mary’s phone rang. It was Emma. I glanced over, saw her face light up. 

Then, the hand on my knee. The big grin. 

“We’re going to be grandparents again,” she said, voice shaking. “It’s a boy.” 

I nearly drove off the road. 

“A boy? December? That’s amazing!” 

And just like that, the rest of the journey shifted. Conversations about baby names, when we’d fly back, whether we’d be ‘Grandma and Grandad’ or go rogue with a cool nickname. 

(I suggested ‘Grand Kev’. Immediately rejected. No hesitation.) 

Rolling Into Gijón, Absolutely Starving 

Between the random village stop and the emotional phone call, we arrived in Gijón later than planned. The sun was dipping, turning the sea gold. Too tired to search for a campsite, we parked up in a hotel car park near the beach. 

We were starving. And as much as I love Spanish food, sometimes you just need a burger. 

We found a bustling little bar, packed with locals. Mary went for goat cheese and caramelised onion on hers, I kept it simple—bacon, fried egg, beef piled high. 

“Not very Spanish,” Mary said, raising an eyebrow. 

“Don’t care,” I said, already halfway through it. Best burger of my life. 

Tomorrow Can Wait 

Walking back to the van, full and still buzzing from the baby news, I turned to Mary. 

“Crazy day, wasn’t it?” 

She smiled. “The best.” 

Tomorrow, we’d properly explore Gijón. But for tonight? Sleep. 

And probably more baby name debates in the morning. 

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