I first saw a picture of Naranjo de Bulnes in the Picos de Europa on the front cover of a climbing magazine in the early 1970s. It looked like an illustration from a science fiction novel of a peak on a distant planet, and it might well have been at the time. I was sixteen, and had only been climbing for just one year. The furthest I’d travelled was to Wales, and the longest route I’d climbed was Flying Buttress on Dinas Cromlech. I decided then that one day I would go to the Picos and climb El Naranjo. Over the following years, I could find few people who had been there, and those that had moaned about the weather, the rock, or the gear - and the dream slowly faded. France became the place to go: St Victoire, Buoux and Buis-les-Barronnies were all great fun but it was the magnificent Verdon Gorge which opened my eyes to the delights of multipitch climbing. I realised that rather than being gripped by the exposure I revelled in it, loving every hanging belay and scary runout. But I was not getting any younger. Real life intervened and along with it family responsibilities. Shortly after my last trip to the Verdon, my first son William was born and not long after that my second, George. Expensive overseas climbing holidays soon became a thing of the past. Fast forward to 2011 and, with both boys safely ensconced at University, the chance to head south again arose, but where? It was ironically an article in this magazine, Percy Bishton’s Bouldering World, that brought the Picos back to mind. In it, Percy described his ascent of one of the hardest routes on the West Face of the Naranjo de Bulnes, Gizon Berri Bat Naiz, a 15 pitch ED (7b+). Chatting to Percy down at the Climbing Works, he enthused about the quality of the climbing, on rock that was even better than the Verdon. I was left with no doubt that this was the place to go. Having just had a knee operation I was soon at the counter buying a Beastmaker 2000. At first it was hard work, but with a Percy’s topo of Gizon… to stare at, I was soon performing repeaters like a man possessed. As long as a route required hanging for 7 seconds on holds of varying depths and angles before moving on, I was going to be fine. I eventually touched down in Spain with Mike Waters, a long time climbing friend and a man as keen for big multi-pitch days out as myself. But things didn’t start off too well. Arriving at the parking area 3 hours from the refuge in the misty darkness, Mike and I elected to spend the night in the car. It’s at times like this that deciding to hire the budget car comes back to haunt you. Wrapped around the driving wheel and gear stick I barely slept a wink all night, not helped by a nocturnal bell-wearing cow somewhere nearby. When I eventually dropped off, I was immediately awoken by a juddering forward movement of the car – courtesy of the aforementioned beast. Having been warned by the nice lady at the airport that any scratch on the vehicle would incur a 600 Euro fine any thoughts of going back to sleep vanished there and then. The walk in was an absolute delight by contrast, at least the first two hours.