Discover the ritual of cider pouring in Gijón, Spain, as part of a sailing journey down the Atlantic coast. A personal encounter with Asturian culture at sea.
There’s something magical about arriving in a new port by sail. You feel you’ve earned it, the sunburned hands, the salt-caked ropes, the endless horizon behind you. When we rounded Cabo Peñas and slid down into Gijón’s busy marina, northern Spain unfolded like a secret kept from the rest of the world. But it wasn’t the cliffs or the cafés or even the sudden change from Biscay grey to Asturian green that grabbed me. It was the sound of cider hitting a glass from high above, and the splash of tradition that followed.
Gijón, or Xixón in Asturian, is not just another waypoint on a sailor’s voyage down Spain’s Atlantic coast. It’s a cultural anchor. While many sail south chasing sun and sangria, this city invites you to pause, to taste, and most unexpectedly, to pour.
We had tied up our sloop on a warm September afternoon, after three days of following the rugged Cantabrian coastline. There were squalls behind us and Galicia ahead. We were hungry, our legs eager to walk on something that didn’t move. A local friend I’d met via a sailing forum offered to meet us in town and show us what Gijón was really about. “Let’s go for cider,” he said. “But not like you think.”
He wasn’t kidding. In Asturias, cider, or 'sidra', isn’t just a drink. It’s a ritual. A performance. A way of life. We ended up in a traditional 'sidrería', a no-frills bar in the Cimavilla district where the floor was sticky, the waiters were fast, and everyone seemed to know when to duck.
The first thing you notice is that the cider is cloudy and uncarbonated, bottled with a natural stillness that’s meant to be awakened. And how do you wake up a sleepy cider? You pour it from a great height. Literally.
Our waiter, no, 'escanciador', stood before us with a green bottle in one hand held high above his head and a wide-mouthed glass near his thigh in the other. Without looking, he tipped the bottle until a stream of cider arced downward, hitting the glass with a theatrical splash. Just a small amount, barely enough to cover the bottom. This is called an 'espicha', and it’s meant to be drunk immediately, in a single gulp, before the fizz disappears. The floor? Covered in sawdust to soak up all that spills.
We took turns trying it ourselves. Pouring sidra is harder than it looks, by the time I’d emptied a third of the bottle, my shoes were soaked, my pride slightly bruised, but the laughter was real. It’s the kind of cultural immersion that doesn’t happen in museums or guidebooks. You live it. You taste it. You wear it.
Later that night, full of local 'queso cabrales' and a very welcome steak, we sat on deck watching the port lights dance on the water. The wind had shifted east, a good omen for tomorrow’s passage. But my thoughts stayed anchored in that sidrería. In the raised arms and the splash. In the pride of a region that pours its heritage with such elegance and joy.
Gijón may be a small stop on the map, but for us, it was the heart of the north. We had sailed in looking for fuel and fresh bread. We left with a memory steeped in apples, laughter, and a new understanding of what it means to taste a place fully. That’s the thing about sailing, it slows you down just enough to catch the rituals others forget to mention. And if you’re lucky, you learn to pour without flinching.
Next stop: Ribadeo. But that’s another bottle, and another story.
