Even walking around the beautiful but easily accessible mountain lakes above Covadonga, it is still possible to lose the crowds and walk all day without seeing another tourist.

The Asturians love their mountains and whole families will take to the trails, greeting strangers as long lost friends. On one memorable occasion I even had my foot massaged with ointment after limping in pain into a village bar. Advice was handed out, drinks passed around, and I was eventually waved on my way clutching a huge wooden walking stick. It was only later I read the inscribed words asking the Virgin Mary to watch over me.

The few towns in the Picos have all pretty well sold their soul to the tourist demand, but it is at the cave-shrine of Covadonga in the shadow of the Disney-like pink basilica where you will encounter pressure not just from tourists, but the Asturians themselves.

It was here, in 718, that the invading Moors were repulsed and the reconquista started. The price of this fame is seen every summer weekend as coaches choke six miles of narrow road. A sign at the top welcomes visitors to this blessed place, but, ironically, few who get this far can park so they simply turn around and go back.

The mountains alone would mark out northern Spain as truly remarkable, but the glorious diversity of its long coastline – the Costa Verde – with its secret coves, long strands of white sand and sheltered rias, is no less special.

Locals say "Hay tantas playas como dias onomasticos" – there are as many beaches as there are saints' days. Others will tell you there is a beach for every day of the year. What is certain is that even on an August weekend you can still have a cove to yourself.

From the delights of the seaside town of Llanes, you can discover dozens of secret beaches tucked into the headlands to the east and west, and the rugged coast either side of the bustling, colourful fishing port of Luarca is blessed with pristine beaches. Few of the best beaches have any facilities and they often have to be reached by overgrown paths or down tracks. Rarely do you find any signs – getting lost in the patchwork of fields becomes part of the fun. Those in the know come armed with a specially-prepared map from the local tourist office.

One of the unexpected delights is the variety offered by this spectacular coastline. You can wander through pungent eucalyptus groves to a pristine white strand, cross tiny fields fringed by thrift, sit by purple sheets of sea lavenders on an inlet, or fall out of a bar along the main promenade in brash Gijon and hire a striped, pagoda-like changing tent before following hundreds of others into the sea.

By far the easiest way to access many parts of this coast is to take the FEVE railway which snakes its way along giving tantalising views of sandy bays, plunging through tunnels and on viaducts over rias. It is a journey on which to dream. This toytown train rarely gets up any speed and you can hop off at any number of small request stops. Very few can interpret the timetable but it is possible to plan a day trip to any number of small beaches.

Few of the coastal towns, with the exception of the frenetic Gijon, are large. But the most important element for the Spanish is to gather in one of the dozens of seaside restaurants lining every harbour and to tuck into mariscera, a mixed seafood platter of crabs, lobster, clams and white fish. I have yet to identify all the items piled high at such a feast but have never tasted better. Chipirones en su tinta – squid cooked in its own ink, is my own particular favourite and zarzuelas or fish stews, and fabas con almejas, beans with clams, are memorable, if somewhat daunting, on a hot summer's evening.

I've yet to be in Asturias without stumbling on a fiesta and the partying spirit can be infectious. The weekly July festivals in Llanes are spectacular. Streets fill with dancers and the music is provided by bagpipes, pipes and drums. In the last weekend of August there are riotous festivities for San Timoteo at Luarca with fireworks over the sea.

The fishermen's festival, El Rosaria, also at Luarca, on August 15th is my favourite. Crowds line the harbour to watch as the Virgin is taken to sea escorted by a fleet of fishing boats. As the town erupts into party mood, high on the cliff the lanterns burn, keeping a vigil for the boats' return. It always seems that however great the party, there will always be an age-old feeling of concern for the fishermen on whom this small town still depends.

In northern Spain, the old and the new continue to co-exist in harmony. I hope they always will.