Artisan mountain cheese

It was a good workout hiking up a mountain. Heartbeat up, layers off. I was down to my T-shirt when I caught a glimpse of an elderly gentleman coming up behind us. He was dressed in a navy knit sweater, collared shirt and hiking pants. No backpack, no water bottle. His only accessory a palo, the wooden staff of shepherds. His stride soon matched ours and he started chatting with Julián like old friends.

Luciano, or Lucio for short, was 75 years young. An ankle injury was forcing him to walk a slower than usual pace. In a deep gravelly voice he tells us he’s going to check on his cows (vacas). Lucio is retired, but this daily walk up the mountain is his routine. It’s what he has done all his life, and it was not always an easy life. One of four children, he took on the responsibility of caring for his family at a young age when his father became ill. He told us this story with tears in his eyes. Making the motion of hauling a heavy package on his back, he explained how he hiked across the mountains to deliver the cheese his family produced, sleeping in the stone huts (cabañas) on his long trek.

My guide checked to make sure I understood. Lucio slept in the rudimentary cabañas that are now only used for livestock. It’s hard to imagine a time without roads connecting villages, but up until 40 years ago traversing these unforgiving mountains was mainly by foot. Chatting with Lucio, surrounded by jagged peaks as far as I could see, was like a page out of the history books. It was a moment I cherish.

We bid a warm farewell to Lucio as he left the path to find his flock. We continued our climb. At the summit the fierce wind and fresh mountain air was exhilarating.

We started our descent passing through a wooden gate. There was no discernible path so I followed my energetic guide as he hopped over and around rocks. I also tried not to step on the pretty purple blooms, saffron (azafran), scattered over the grassy slopes. A second makeshift gate marked a well trodden but very steep narrow path that zig zagged sharply through the tall grass. Part way down we passed another elderly gentlemen with a palo. Ernesto lived in the same village as Julián. “Es una muy buena persona,” he told me. He is a really good person. Ernesto (one of 18 siblings!) spends much of the year in Chile as a missionary. I could feel his kindheartedness as he expressed concern we didn’t have a palo for this steep descent.

A palo would have been helpful but we made it down just fine.

The mountains offer not only fantastic grazing grounds, but also natural limestone caves. These caves are ideal temperature and humidity controlled spaces to age cheeses made with the milk of these grazing cows, sheep and goats. Yep, this is cheese country. There is a long history of artisanal cheese making in these mountains. It’s an integral part of the culture and economy.

There’s a fortune of cheese ensconced in the limestone mountains under lock and key.

The region is known for a sharp blue veined cheese. There are different D.O.P. (denomination of protected origin) from different districts but they are all made with unpasteurized milk from herds raised in this small mountainous area and aged in the natural caves. The most well known is Queso de Cabrales. The village of Sotres was in the district of Cabrales. This sharp pungent cheese can be made with cows milk or a mixture of cow, sheep and goat to add complexity.

There are numerous small queserías (cheese producers) in the Picos. I saw signs for “La Ruta de Los Quesos” (the cheese route) on our hike in Cantabria near the village of Bejes. This village, with a population of 80, has four queserías. Hundreds of sheep. I saw their hooves in our steep muddy track.

I love cheese so sampling the local cheeses was a delight. By this point in my trip I had tried several varieties. I was psyched when Julián told me we were going to visit a quesería. Quesería Demués produces an award winning D.O.P Gamonue, apparently the most expensive cheese in Spain. Stepping in the smoke room where they aged the ahumado (smoked cheese) was dreamy. The shelves lined with beautiful rounds of cheese, the air thick with the smell of wood fire. The intensely flavourful cheese was sharp yet smooth. Highly addictive.

I was also keen to try the famed Queso de Cabrales.

I got my opportunity at Julián’s apple cider farm in Abándomes (where my school was located). For lunch on the Thursday I was invited to join his family for a wonderful picoteo which is a communal meal of sharing bites from large plates (cover photo). There was chorizo a la sidra, cecina (cured thinly sliced beef from neighbouring León), fresh farm eggs, salad with juicy tomatoes and several cheeses, including Queso de Cabrales. I started with a small wedge of this smelly blue cheese thinking it would be too pungent but quickly returned for seconds.

The apple cider farm was his great-grandfather’s (bisabuelo). It sat unused for 30-40 years and then four years ago Julián, along with his cousin José María, brought it back to life. They restored the 150 year old cider press. The large wooden contraption takes up a large part of the rustic workspace on the ground floor. We had lunch in the lofty space above, with open views to the apple orchard and mountains. A collection of old farm tools hung on an ancient wooden beam. All furniture, materials and tools were reclaimed or recycled. Nothing to waste. There was a large pile of alubias (a white kidney bean) behind our table waiting to be shelled. It was a busy time of year. The apple harvest was also underway. They had four varieties of apples, each ripening at different times.

Did we have cider? Of course we did. Poured in the traditional way. It was tart and crisp, just the way I like my apples! I could have easily whittled away many hours snacking on the tasty picoteo and drinking the short pours of sidra in the airy loft with a view. My diligent teacher Ana, however, was sitting beside me and reminded me I had class to attend. I needed to be sharp for my schoolwork.

“Work” was a stretch. This was all to pleasant to be labelled as work.