Es Migjorn Gran

The church clock strikes noon and the only other sound is a scooter disappearing towards the potato fields. Es Migjorn Gran, population 1,563, doesn’t do noise. It doesn’t do souvenir shops either, or cocktail bars, or much beyond the essentials: bread delivered at dawn, a single cash machine, and a bar that still writes your bill on the paper tablecloth.

Menorca’s youngest municipality sits 115 metres above the south coast, far enough from the sea to keep developers away yet close enough to smell salt on the breeze. The distance matters: while tour buses unload at Santo Tomás beach three kilometres downhill, the village itself stays stubbornly weekday-calm even in August. Residents call it “el poble” – the village – as if the rest of the island were mere suburbs.

Stone, Silence and the Smell of Bread

Every house is the colour of beach sand because every house is made from it. The local marés sandstone cuts soft, weathers softer, and glows honey-gold when the sun drops behind the church. Walk the grid of six streets (it won’t take long) and you’ll see the same material framing doorways, propping up grape vines, forming the low benches where old men inspect passing cars. Shutters are painted the deep green that islanders believe keeps flies out; whether it works is unclear, but the colour has become tradition.

There is no centre in the British sense – no Costa-packed high street, no pedestrianised plaza with piped music. Instead, the 18th-century church of Sant Cristòbal fills one side of a square barely larger than a tennis court. Mass finishes at 11:15 on Sundays; by 11:30 the metal grille is pulled across the bakery next door and the day’s rhythm switches to siesta. If you need milk after lunch, drive to Es Mercadal ten minutes away – the village shop locks up at 13:30 and nobody apologises for it.

Downhill to the Sea, Uphill to Bed

The road to Santo Tomás corkscrews through fields walled in dry stone, each limestone slab lifted into place without mortar two centuries ago and still doing its job. At the bottom lies two kilometres of pale sand, gently shelving, patrolled by two lifeguards and one itinerant ice-cream van. British families return here year after year because the water stays knee-deep for 30 metres – perfect for children who’ve outgrown buckets but not yet braved waves. The built-up back row of hotels is undeniably 1970s, yet strict height limits mean nothing rises above the pine tops, and a five-minute walk west brings you to the nudist cove of Binigaus where development stops dead.

Even in peak season you can claim ten metres of empty beach if you arrive before 09:00. The trick is to park at the southern end of the resort, skirt the ruined 18th-century watchtower, and keep walking. By the time the sun is high enough to burn through British SPF 30, you’ll have retreated to the pine-shaded promenade that links Santo Tomás with neighbouring San Adeodato. The round-trip stroll takes 40 minutes and delivers three separate coffee stops, all serving strong Pomada (gin and lemon) should the walk feel too energetic.

Walking Rings Round an Island

Es Migjorn Gran happens to sit on the Camí de Cavalls, the 185-km medieval bridlepath that girdles Menorca. Step through the kissing gate at the edge of the village and you’re on GR-223, way-marked in red and white. Head east and an easy 90 minutes delivers you to Cala Mitjana, a turquoise inlet crowded by 11:00 but deserted if you set off at dawn with a swimming costume and a bottle of water. Head west and the path climbs through holm oak to Binigaus ravine, where wild rosemary brushes your shins and the only company is a farmer on a tiny tractor who waves like a neighbour.

Do not trust the map’s innocent contour lines: 100 metres of Menorcan rock in midday heat feels like 300 anywhere else. Proper shoes, a litre of water per person and a hat are non-negotiable; every summer the local fire brigue rescues otherwise sensible Brits in flip-flops who underestimated both distance and sun. October half-term is kinder – 22 °C sea, empty trails, and hotels that drop their prices by a third.

What to Eat When Nobody’s Watching

Evenings start late. The village’s one proper restaurant, S’Engolidor, opens at 20:00 and stops taking orders when the tables are full – sometimes 20:30, rarely later. The set menu changes nightly: perhaps lamb shoulder roasted with local potatoes, or squid stuffed with sobrasada (the paprika-spiked sausage that stains everything ochre). Ask for the soft cow’s cheese called formatge de civada; it tastes like a cross between ricotta and clotted cream and converts even those who fear foreign fromage. House wine arrives in a glass jug, costs €4, and matches the food better than the more expensive bottle list back home.

Down at the beach strip Can Bernat will knock up a chicken-only paella if you can’t face picking bones out of seafood. British teenagers approve because it looks like the yellow rice from M&S and tastes faintly of curry powder. Locals eat elsewhere – follow them to Bar Rocas on the Santo Tomás promenade for gin and lemon served in pint glasses, ice clinking like wind-chimes.

The Catch in Paradise

There are irritations. A car is almost essential: the last bus from Mahón reaches the village at 19:10 and there is no Sunday service. Taxis must be booked by phone; waving from the kerb simply labels you as optimistic. Mosquitoes own the fields after dusk – repellent is more useful than another pair of shorts. And if you stay on the coast, remember the climb back: the lane rises 90 metres in two kilometres, steep enough to make a post-dinner stroll feel like penance.

Yet these are minor prices for what you gain: a place where church bells still mark time, where the bakery knows which way the wind blows before the forecast does, and where the sea is three kilometres away but close enough to hear in the hush of night. Bring a car, bring repellent, and bring the habit of slowing down. Es Migjorn Gran has been practising it for centuries.