Cadaqués

The tramuntana hits Cadaqués like a living thing. This north wind doesn't merely blow—it carves, sculpts and occasionally terrorises. It rattles the blue-green shutters of whitewashed houses, whips the bay into whitecaps, and has been known to drive visitors straight back to Barcelona after a single sleepless night. Yet without it, this fishing village-turned-artists' colony wouldn't be half so interesting. The wind shaped the twisted rocks of Cap de Creus, drew Salvador Dalí here to build his theatrical home, and still provides the perfect excuse for lingering over lengthy lunches in seafront taverns.

The Long Road to the End of Spain

Getting here requires commitment. The GI-614 winds 22 kilometres from Figueres through the Cap de Creus Natural Park, each hairpin bend revealing another sweep of Mediterranean blue. British visitors flying into Girona can catch the Sarfa bus—though Sunday services dwindle to one every seven hours, so smart travellers screenshot the taxi number (+34 972 25 08 08) before leaving the airport. The road terminates at Cadaqués; there's no through route to anywhere else, which explains why the village has retained its peculiar character despite decades of tourism.

At sea level, the village sprawls amphitheatre-style around a gravel beach. Houses climb the hillside in terraced confusion, their white walls reflecting sunlight so brilliantly that sunglasses feel essential even on overcast days. The church of Santa Maria crowns the old town, its 16th-century Gothic form painted the same dazzling white as every other building—navigation landmark and spiritual centre in one convenient package.

Dalí's Shadow and Other Ghosts

Portlligat, technically a separate hamlet ten minutes' walk from the centre, houses the Casa-Museu Salvador Dalí. What began as a fisherman's shack became an architectural fever dream as Dalí annexed neighbouring properties, creating a labyrinth of irregular rooms topped with giant white eggs. Only eight visitors enter every ten minutes, and tickets often sell out days ahead—booking online is non-negotiable, particularly for British school holidays. The house preserves Dalí's theatrical aesthetic: taxidermied swans, a lip-shaped sofa modelled on Mae West, and windows framing the bay like living paintings.

Yet Dalí wasn't the only artist seduced by this light. Picasso summered here, Miró painted the rocks, and the village still attracts a rotating cast of painters who set up easels along the promenade. Their watercolours sell for €50-200 from makeshift stands—tourist tat to some, affordable original art to others. The genuine artistic legacy lives on in small galleries tucked between souvenir shops, where contemporary Catalan artists exhibit works that wouldn't look out of place in London's smaller commercial spaces.

Beach Realities and Coastal Truths

Let's be clear: Cadaqués beach won't win any sandy paradise awards. It's pebbly, shelving steeply into water that stays stubbornly cold until July. Bring swim shoes or hobble dramatically across the stones like everyone else. The gravel actually works in the village's favour—fewer families with inflatable crocodiles, more serious swimmers and locals who've been diving here since childhood. For proper sand, take the ferry to Roses (€18 return, 45 minutes) where the Gulf of Sant Jordi provides proper beaches and pedalos.

The real coastal action happens along the footpaths threading Cap de Creus. The coastal route to Cala Sa Conca takes twenty minutes along a properly maintained path, rewarding walkers with a tiny cove where nudity is optional and the snorkelling reveals octopus among the rocks. Further north, the lighthouse at Cap de Creus marks Spain's easternmost point—reach it via the twisting road (car essential) or tackle the three-hour hike from town. The café beside the lighthouse serves surprisingly decent coffee and tortilla, though prices reflect the captive audience.

Eating with the Wind in Your Hair

Seafood dominates menus, but Cadaqués kitchens know their audience. Suquet de peix arrives as a mild, tomato-based stew—think Catalan bouillabaisse without the saffron punch. Grilled sardines cost €8-12 and taste properly of the sea, not the freezer. Vegetarians survive on pa amb tomàquet (toasted bread rubbed with tomato and olive oil) and escalivada (roasted peppers and aubergine). Can Rafa on the seafront does proper seafood paella for two minimum—order by 14:30 or watch them sell out to German tourists.

Prices rise exponentially with sea views. A table directly on the promenade might charge €28 for grilled sea bass; walk two streets inland and the same fish drops to €18. The local wine, Empordà DO, provides decent value—white Garnatxa pairs perfectly with anchovies, the regional speciality. British visitors note: many bars still operate cash-only, and ATMs charge €2-3 per withdrawal. Sunday evenings see most restaurants close early; plan accordingly or face crisps for dinner.

When to Brave the Elements

April-May and September-October deliver the sweet spot: warm enough for swimming, quiet enough to find parking, cheap enough to justify the splurge. Summer transforms Cadaqués into something approaching hell—day-trippers from Barcelona fill every parking space by 10 a.m., restaurant queues snake around corners, and the tramuntana provides zero relief from 35-degree heat. Winter brings solitude and shuttered hotels; many restaurants close November-March, though the Dalí House stays open year-round (reduced hours, easier tickets).

The wind deserves special mention. It can blow for three days solid, rattling windows and tempers equally. Accommodation on the main road suffers from 6 a.m. bin lorries; request rooms towards the back. Bring a proper jacket—even August nights turn chilly when the tramuntana really gets going. On the plus side, it clears clouds faster than any weather app predicts, delivering those crystalline mornings that inspired generations of artists.

Leaving requires similar patience to arriving. The bus back to Figueres winds the same serpentine road, slower now with holiday traffic. As Cadaqués disappears around the final bend, the tramuntana gives a parting gust—either farewell kiss or territorial warning, depending on your departure mood. Either way, you'll understand why this village at Spain's eastern edge attracted artists, resisted developers, and continues to demand effort from every visitor. The road home feels shorter somehow, though the memories of white walls and impossible blue seas linger considerably longer.