Before a recent walking trip in the fertile mountains of Cantabria and Asturias, I believed shepherds, along with the dinosaurs, had joined the ranks of the extinct.   This is not yet the case, I was amazed to discover, but they are certainly an endangered species.

  I had hardly left the comfortable refugio at the base of Naranjo de Bulnes, a great incisor of limestone that attracts many a climber to the Picos de Europa, when a sure-footed goatherd bounded effortlessly up the hill before me in search of a small herd of ten or twelve goats.   He wasn't wearing robes and drinking from a gourd, as one might imagine, but sporting high-tech mountain gear of which any alpinist would be proud.   This sure-footed apparition gathered his herd into a tight group and blazed a trail down the side of a ravine towards the charming traditional village of Bulnes, almost 1,000 metres lower in altitude.   The sound of bells on the goats' necks echoed through the valley as if rehearsing a soundtrack for Heidi.

  I continued on a meandering but well-trodden track towards the Refugio de la Terenosa, situated on a high pass above Pandébano, from where I was to make my descent through fertile pastures into Bulnes.   A helpful girl in the refugio had told me to ask a lady called Rosa for permission since I had to pass through her land, and so I did, not wanting to disturb the peace.   Rosa's stone cabin, like all the other shepherds ' huts in this region, was built in the traditional Asturian style and its red clay tiles contrasted magnificently with the craggy grey bowl of rock lording over the valley.   Outside the door were various basins and pots and the traditional utensils of the cheese-maker.  A dark mule was tied to the stone wall and beneath its feet stood a magnificent speckled rooster with a harem of hens.   It is a scene that has remained unchanged for generations.

  Rosa was probably 70 years old, or perhaps 170 - you couldn 't be sure.  She had an introspective, weathered Asturian face suggesting an outlook on life not unlike that of her distant forefathers, who, I have no doubt, were also herdspeople.   When I entered her small stone summer cabin she cut me a thin slice from a block of strong local cheese that she had stored in a steel bucket and served it to me on the blade of her knife.   Being used to mild Irish cheddar, I tasted it tentatively.

  "Bueno, no?" she inquired sweetly.

  "Me gusta mucho," I replied approvingly in my faltering Spanish.  She smiled a charming medieval smile.

  Cheese, my guidebook reminded me, became such an important component of Asturian and Cantabrian cuisine out of pastoral necessity.   The shepherds around Bulnes, in order to make the most of the available grass between spring and autumn, took their herds and flocks to high mountain pastures such as Rosa 's to graze and they used the grass in the valleys to make hay for winter forage.  The milk produced by the animals had to be converted into a non-perishable product for consumption in the following months.   It is fermented for long periods in stone vaults and it is this process that gives the cheese its delightfully sharp taste and crumbly texture.  I later discovered there are as many cheeses as districts in Asturias - Gamonedo, Cabrales, Bejes, Beyos and Treviso are but a few - and there may well be as many cheeses as cheese-makers.

  Rosa wrapped a large slice of cheese for me and I placed it next to the water bottle in my rucksack to keep it cool.   While I was saying farewell to her and a man I assume was her middle-aged son, I gave her a few coins for her produce and wondered what she would spend them on.   Her few belongings, spartan wardrobe and blue apron would see her through her days.  To her, the ephemeral costumes in the shop windows of Oviedo and Bilbao are the trappings of a different world.

  On going through the gate I felt a little melancholy, predicting that when Rosa and her contemporaries pass away their kind and culture will never be seen again.   Although there are still many goatherds and shepherds continuing the centuries-old tradition in the high pastures of Asturias and Cantabria, the number is in rapid decline.   Poverty, isolation and hardship are driving the younger generation to the local towns to find a steady wage, and the lack of holidays and sheer loneliness take their toll.  And what well-heeled tourist would have a right to tell them otherwise?  Even Rosa must sell cheese to tourists to earn a meagre wage.  Perhaps it is only through alternative enterprises such as tourism, coupled with government supports and training, that her ancient way of life can be maintained.

  For a village in western Europe, the village of Bulnes is a rare joy in that it has no road access.   I reached it by descending a timeworn stone path, noting many unoccupied cabins en route.  The village comprises the high hamlet of El Castillo, where a herdsman was raking the last of the hay into rough cocks with a large wooden rake, and the lower section, La Villa, which is larger and enjoying the benefits of tourism.   I was truly amazed to see a couple of bars selling refreshments and even an albergue advertising beds for the night.

  I found a table next to a gurgling stream and purchased a hearty meal of fried potatoes with Cabrales cheese from a pretty young girl who was obviously the heir to a family business.

  "Vas al école aqui?," I asked her, wondering whether the education system extended its tentacles into such remote regions.

  "Aqui, no.  Cercano," she replied shyly and returned to her mother who was calling her from the darkness of the kitchen.  I was not the only tourist requiring service in Bulnes.

  Despite its need to pander to tourists, the village still shows signs of its traditional way of life.   Fattened sows lay in a cool byre and an ageing mule stood in the shade seeking refuge from the noonday sun.  A farmer hunted a herd of handsome, horned cattle towards some high grazing ground while another sat on a block of wood mending the handle of a fork.   All seems well for now, yet all around are the signs of a pastoral existence in decline.  In spite of there being funding available to execute some fine repair work on the buildings and cobble the pathways, the uninhabited dwellings tell their own tale.   The door to the unaffected chapel, dedicated to the Virgin of the Snows, is locked and brushwood is beginning to choke the labyrinth of small fields.   The delicate balance between agriculture and tourism is beginning to tip in favour of the latter, yet it is only through tourism that Bulnes will avoid becoming yet another deserted village, an architectural testimony to a life unrecorded in paint or ink.

  In December 2000, some 12 years after Bulnes was electrified, a funicular railway was opened joining it to the nearby settlement of Poncebos.   Only time will tell whether it will be a lifeline or a lynching rope.  It was deemed easier to bore a tunnel through the mountain than to build a road and it is on the small subterranean railway that most of the tourists come with their picnics and prams, many seemingly unaware of the importance of the sleepy settlement they are visiting.   I walked to the entrance of the tunnel intending to purchase a ticket to Poncebos but a ferocious loud wind enticed me to turn back.  I took it as a sign that I should make my way to Poncebos on foot along the Texu gorge.   It was this route that countless villagers, burdened with loads heavier than mine, were obliged to use before they enjoyed the modern convenience of rail travel.

  Lizards sunned themselves on the hot rocks as I continued my journey alongside the impossibly blue waters of the gorge and the magestic scenery and smell of wild sage more than compensated for the tiredness in my legs.   I reached the tiny settlement of Poncebos late in the afternoon and managed to negotiate a lift to Arenas de Cabrales, a larger town some six or seven kilometres distant noted for its annual cheese festival.   I found lodgings in a friendly pensión, removed my sweaty boots and socks and turned on the television.  Something incongruous was occurring on the streets of Madrid.

  Colourfully dressed Spanish herdsmen, joined by many more from countries as distant as Mongolia and Tanzania, were participating in a world gathering of shepherds in defence of ancient grazing routes, which, they argued, are being destroyed by thoughtless modernisation.   Not only is the tradition of transhumance dying, they contended, so also is the land on which it is practiced, be it through forest fires, crass development or overgrazing associated with modern intensive farming.

  "If the shepherds are mobilising," I thought to myself, "there is still hope that their way of life can be sustained.   Let's not talk of extinction just yet! "

  It was then that I remembered it: Rosa 's cheese.   I removed it carefully from my rucksack and unwrapped it as if it were a precious object.  I placed it on a slab of wholesome white bread and savoured every tasty bite.   It was as crumbly and ancient as tradition itself.