Capmany

The church bells ring at noon, and the only other sound is gravel crunching under your boots. Capmany's main street—really just a stone corridor wide enough for one cautious car—has fallen silent. A woman in an apron leans from her balcony to pull in washing. She nods, unbothered by strangers, then disappears. This is how the village announces lunchtime: not with traffic or shop-door buzzers, but with the sudden absence of both.

At 107 m above sea level, Capmany sits where the eastern Pyrenees exhale into the Empordà plain. The position once made it a natural route between inland trade towns and the old French frontier. Today it makes a handy base for anyone who wants Dalí within 25 minutes, beaches within 20, yet would rather sleep among vineyards than tour buses.

Stone, Vine and Tramontana

The oldest houses are built from honey-coloured granite hauled out of nearby quarries. Their ground-floor arches, called portals foradats, were designed so farmers could lead mules straight into the kitchen. Look up and you'll still see iron rings where animals were tethered beside the hearth. Restoration has been gentle: satellite dishes are banned from street-facing walls, and new paint must pass a municipal colour chart that ranges from "dry clay" to "weathered leather". The result is continuity rather than museum perfection; children kick footballs against the same walls their great-grandparents leaned on during the Civil War.

Surrounding the village, 350 ha of vines stripe the lower hills. The cooperative, founded in 1963, sells Empordà DO wine at prices that convert sceptics: €3 buys you three tasting measures and a chat with the bloke who bottled them. Varieties to try are the fresh white Garnatxa Blanca and a peppery Carignan that tastes of the garrigue herbs crushed underfoot on local paths. Bottles start at €5; bring cash, because the card machine sulks on Mondays, when the whole building is shuttered anyway.

When the tramontana wind blows, the sky clears so completely you can pick out individual cypress trees 15 km away towards the coast. Locals claim the wind also lengthens the grape-growing season, giving wines their snap of acidity. It can also lift roof tiles and tempers: the village council issues free psychological help during long bouts. Walkers should note that a breeze that feels invigorating at 10 am can become brutal by early afternoon; pack a windproof even in June.

A Circular Life

There are no ticketed attractions in Capmany. Instead, life moves in slow, observable circles. At 7 am the baker lights the oven; by 8 the square smells of sugar-dusted coques, a flat bread topped with almonds that tastes like a cross between focaccia and Bath bun. Mid-morning, tractors hauling stainless-steel tanks crawl towards the cooperative for the day's pressing. Siesta begins precisely at 13:30—shops lower metal shutters with a rattle that echoes down the narrow lanes—then reopens at 16:30 unless it's August, when everyone is at the coast and you may wait until 17:00.

The parish church of Sant Cristòfor stands at the highest point, its bell-tower used by farmers as a landmark when ploughing. Inside, an 18th-century altarpiece depicts the village's three economic pillars: wheat, olives and a single, optimistic cod. The painting is flaking, but restoration funds are raised the Catalan way: a summer calçotada where 200 locals sit at one table and eat 1,000 grilled onions dipped in romesco. Tickets €25; strangers welcome if they bring their own apron.

Outside, three sign-posted footpaths fan out. The shortest (4 km) loops through holm-oak woods to a ruined Iberian watchtower; the longest (12 km) reaches the Albera massif and requires stout shoes after rain. None are crowded—on weekdays you share the path only with cyclists who have diverted from the smooth, secondary roads that ribbon between villages. These lanes, part of the branded "Empordà Loop", offer 300 m of climbing over 40 km: enough to justify lunch, not so much you need gels.

Eating by the Clock

Food is seasonal and stubbornly local. Winter means escudella, a broth thick with pork hock and chickpeas that arrives in two acts: soup first, meat and cabbage after. Spring brings tiny broad beans stewed with mint, and the first white onions sweet enough to eat raw. Summer menus pivot around tomatoes, rubbed onto toast with garlic and olive oil, then topped with anchovies from L'Escala, 18 km east. Autumn is game: rabbit with raisins, wild boar stewed in the same Carignan you tasted at the cooperative.

Three restaurants operate within the village boundary. La Llar del Pagès closes Monday and doesn't unlock its door before 20:00 even on Saturdays—book or go hungry. Expect grilled gambots (giant red prawns) at market price (currently €28 for six) and a merlot that costs €14 a bottle, roughly restaurant wholesale in Britain. Bar Fonda, beside the war memorial, serves simpler fare: platters of llonganissa sausage, mild goat's cheese and olives that arrive whether you order them or not. A lunch of bread, meat and a glass of wine sets you back €9; they still write the bill in biro on a paper napkin.

Credit cards are treated with suspicion everywhere. Carry notes, especially for purchases under €10, and don't wave a €50 unless you want the waiter to disappear for ten minutes searching for change.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Girona airport is 55 minutes away on the AP-7 toll road (€7.35). Hire a car: public transport is patchy. A single bus leaves Figueres at 13:15, reaches Capmany at 13:45 and turns around at 14:00. No Sunday service. The nearest railway halt is in Vilajuïga, 9 km distant, but trains are regional and taxis non-existent unless pre-booked. Fill up with fuel in Figueres—the village pump closes at 13:00 sharp and all weekend.

Roads inland are well-surfaced but narrow; meeting a combine harvester on a bend is educational. In winter the N-IIa can ice over at dawn, and the tramontana has been known to topple high-sided vans. Summer is safer, though parking inside the walls disappears fast on market Saturday. Spaces on the southern ring road are free and unlimited; from there it's a three-minute walk to the centre, downhill all the way—remember you'll be climbing back after wine.

The Honest Verdict

Capmany suits travellers who prefer process to checklist. You come to watch grapes become wine, bread emerge from an oven older than the Bank of England, and village life proceed without rehearsal. Stay longer than two nights and you'll be recognised in the bakery; by the fourth morning they'll hand you the coke before you point. Yet "small" can tip into "limited": if the restaurants are fully booked, the nearest alternative is 7 km away in Mollet. Rainy days offer little beyond the cooperative tasting room and a small interpretation centre devoted to cork production. Bring a book, or better, a bicycle.

Come in late April for wild asparagus along the paths, or mid-September to catch the harvest buzz and still swim on the coast. August is hot, busy and pricey—rooms that cost €70 in May jump to €140. Winter brings empty roads and fire-warmed bars, but also short daylight and the very real possibility that your hotel restaurant will close without warning if bookings drop below six.

Capmany won't change your life. It will, however, let you borrow someone else's for a few slow hours: stone lanes that smell of yeast at dawn, a square where teenagers still play cards under street-lamps, wine that costs less than bottled water back home. Return the keys to the hire car, and the village resets to tractor-and-bells normality—no souvenir stalls, no hard feelings, just the echo of gravel under the next pair of boots.