There are places that choose you rather than the other way around. Asturias was one of them, arriving in my life through a photograph of rain-slicked cobblestones and a bowl of something so deeply satisfying it seemed to hold centuries of storms within its depths. The image was of fabada, that sacred trinity of white beans, chorizo, and morcilla, but it was the history behind it that pulled me northward to Spain's wildest coast.

Along the cliffs of this forgotten kingdom, where Celtic mists dance with Iberian dreams, the sea throws itself against stunning stone cliffs with fury. This is not the Spain of postcard beaches and sangria sunsets. This is something prehistoric, rustic, even primal.

We began in Llanes, a town that sits perched between mountain and sea, where orange-tiled rooftops lean into turquoise coves. The rain falls sideways, and the locals walk with the unhurried confidence of people who understand weather as a fact of life rather than an inconvenience.

Its medieval streets lead inevitably to the Paseo de San Pedro, a cinematic cliff-edge promenade ringed by sheer drops and breathtaking vistas. It offers glimpses of the Picos de Europa through breaks in the clouds, while in the distance, the lighthouse stands guard against the Cantabrian waves that have been throwing tantrums for millennia. Below the cliffs, the beaches have found their foothold by carving secret coves, where the rock relented and where sand gathered quietly out of reach. Walking the Paseo de San Pedro in weather like this requires a certain kind of madness. Salt spray mingles with rain, and somewhere in that confluence of elements, my hunger sharpens.

Eventually, we found cover in a wood-panelled sidreria, where the floors were sticky from years of cider spills and the walls bore the ghosts of generations past. There was a man near the bar who stood tall and tilted a green bottle high above his head, pouring a golden stream into a glass held low - sidra natural, treating the ritual with the solemnity it deserved. The traditional method “escanciado” involves pouring from high above, oxygenating the cider so each small culin sparkles with foam and ritual. Asturias’ alcoholic emblem.

Asturian cider bears no resemblance to its sweet cousins from other regions. This is something ancestral, fermented and aged in chestnut barrels, wild and funky, slightly effervescent, with a tartness that cuts through the richness of Asturian food. This bone-dry apple cider has just earned UNESCO intangible heritage status, though everyone here already treats it with reverence.

The first plate of food came hot: a blistered pile of pimientos de padron, half of them mild, half sneakily spicy. Charred, oily, perfectly salted. Then, a single, glistening chorizo, placed formidably in a terracotta bowl of rust-red oil. It looked simple enough. It tasted like fire and pork and paprika and storm.

Another round of cider brought tortos asturianos - fried cornmeal discs that were golden, crisp-edged, and slightly chewy at the centre. They were topped with alternating mounds of queso de cabrales (local blue cheese), crisped morcilla (blood sausage), and picadillo (spiced minced chorizo). They were absurdly rich, and deeply satisfying. The morcilla stayed with me the longest - I could still taste the iron tang of the blood sausage two hours later, in the best way.

The next morning, the rain paused - as if Asturias had taken a breath and given us a break too.

We drove inland toward Covadonga, where the Picos de Europa rise so close they feel within reach. The road narrowed. The cliffs thickened. Moss hung heavy from branches. And just before the trailhead, a chapel emerged from the mist, tucked inside a cave, a waterfall streaming past. The hike up to the lakes winds through beech forests that seem to hold their breath, each step as much an ascent in altitude as in anticipation. These mountains have seen it all: Celtic warriors, Roman legions, Moorish armies stopped cold by terrain and weather.

The lakes emerged slowly into view, their surfaces mirror-still despite the wind, reflecting peaks that disappear into clouds. Lago Enol and Lago Ercina stretched with its waters so pristine they seemed to hold the sky itself captive. This is where Pelayo made his stand in 722, where Christian Spain began its long reconquest. But standing there, lungs burning and legs aching, all I could think about was the bowl of fabada waiting somewhere below in the valley.

Back in Llanes, in a tavern whose name I've forgotten but whose warmth I never will, I encountered my first proper fabada. It arrived looking unassuming: ivory beans swimming in a broth the colour of autumn leaves, punctuated by a chunk of chorizo that released its paprika-stained oils with each spoonful. The morcilla dissolved at the touch of my spoon, painting the liquid with its mineral darkness.

Fabada Asturiana has swaggered out of humble beginnings to culinary icon. First noted in 1884, it contains fabes de la Granja - large white beans with a buttery shimmer - soaked overnight, then simmered gently for hours with compango: chorizo, morcilla, lacón (cured pork shoulder) and tocino (pork belly), held together by saffron, garlic, olive oil and salt.

The key to this recipe is the ingredients, which need to be from Asturias (otherwise it just won't be the same). The fabes, those plump white beans that form the foundation of everything, grow only in certain valleys where the climate strikes exactly the right balance between mountain chill and Atlantic moisture.

Fabada is a hot and heavy dish, and for that reason, it is most commonly eaten during the winter. But even though this was June, the Atlantic brought sufficient rain and chill to make it worth our while. Some dishes exist not just to nourish but to anchor the soul against storms. This is one of them.

Later, I read that María Luisa García, Asturias’ most beloved cook, had written about fabada not as cuisine but as ritual. “Se empieza la fabada sin hablar.” You begin the fabada without speaking. She was right. It commands silence.

Standing on the cliffs of Paseo de San Pedro on my last evening there, I understood why this land has inspired such fierce loyalty. Perhaps it's the way the food here holds the essence of this place, the way each spoonful contains not just pork and legumes but the very DNA of Asturias: stubborn, generous, unforgettable. It's not an easy place to love, this corner of Spain where the weather changes by the hour and the mountains lean into the sea like old friends sharing secrets. But once it claims you, once you've tasted its beans and weathered its storms, it becomes part of your personal geography, a coordinate you'll always carry in your heart.

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Not all those who wander are lost – some of us are just looking for the perfect stew on a stormy coast.

Ankita

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