Castelló d'Empúries

A Capital That Forgot to Shrink

Seventeen metres above the marshes, Castelló d’Empúries still carries the shoulders of a county seat. The basilica tower punches far above the population graph, and the arcaded streets feel wide enough for processions that no longer happen. Walk through the Porta de la Gallarda at eight in the morning and the only sound is the clack of swallow wings against stone. By nine, the bakery on Carró has sold out of pa de pessic and the chemist is pulling up its shutters; by ten the first coach party drifts in, but the place never swells beyond a polite hum.

The village—officially 11,600 souls, though half seem to be in the fields or at their desks in Figueres—sits four kilometres inland from the yacht maze of Empuriabrava. That short gap is enough to filter out the stag-night brigade and leave the stone pavements to couples who’d rather debate Romanesque capitals than shot prices. You can cross the historic core in fifteen minutes, yet the detail keeps you longer: a horseshoe scar on a granite step, a coat of arms half-erased by civil-war bullets, the sudden waft of sobrassada from a doorway that turns out to be someone’s front room.

What the Sea Left Behind

Empúries county once commanded two coasts and a string of Mediterranean trade posts. When the counts decamped in the fifteenth century, the sea silted up and the town shrank, but the buildings stayed stubborn. The Basilica of Santa Maria, begun in 1268 as a would-be cathedral, still dwarfs everything around it. Inside, the air is cool enough to make you regret shorts; the stone acoustics catch even a whisper and fling it up into the rib vaults. A €5 ticket (last sold thirty minutes before closing) lets you climb the tower on selected weekends; from the top you see the flat green weave of the Aiguamolls marshes and, on clear days, the white high-rises of Roses glinting like broken teeth.

Below the tower, the old Cúria-Presó served as both courthouse and prison. The ground-floor cells measure two metres by one; graffiti carved by nineteenth-century debtors is still visible above the iron ring in the wall. An English leaflet explains the penal code—thirty-five days for stealing a donkey, death for repeating the offence—and the attendant will demonstrate the 30-kilogram ankle irons if you ask nicely. Children under ten usually volunteer to be locked up; parents tend to decline.

Flat Land, Big Sky

East of the medieval grid, the pavement stops and the Aiguamolls de l’Empordà begin. What looks like a dull floodplain turns out to be Catalonia’s second-largest wetland after the Ebro delta. Herons stalk the drainage ditches; in April and October, marsh harriers tilt overhead while bee-eaters thread the air like bright needles. A raised wooden path leads to a hide large enough for six quiet people; bring binoculars and patience, not conversation. Mosquitoes own the reserve after dusk between May and September—repellent is non-negotiable.

Cyclists can follow the Ruta del Ter westward, a dead-flat 22-kilometre track to Torroella de Montgrí. The return leg is against the tramuntana, the north wind that can arrive in minutes and sandblast your shins. Hire bikes at the shop opposite the tourist office; hybrids are €18 a day, e-bikes €32, and you’ll be asked for passport ID the way a London landlord asks for a deposit.

Thursday Mornings and Other Timetables

Market day rewinds the clock. Stallholders shout prices in Catalan first, Spanish second; if you attempt “Bon dia” you’ll be rewarded with a slice of tupí cheese on the end of a pocket knife. The Thursday spread fills Plaça Jaume I: honey from Rabós, strawberries from El Masnou, grey-green olives that taste of fennel and salt. By 13:30 the square is hosed down and the only evidence is a squashed fig on the cobbles.

Outside those hours, shopping is thin. The bakery does excellent coques—flat breads topped with red pepper and anchovy—but shuts at 13:00 and does not reopen. Restaurants observe the Catalan split shift: lunch 13:00-15:30, dinner 20:00-23:00. Turn up at 18:30 and you will find locked doors, however plaintively you peer through the glass. Sundays are almost monastic; bring picnic supplies the day before or be prepared to drive to the supermarket on the industrial estate.

Rice, Duck and a Polite Rebellion

Local menus read like a geography lesson: sea to the east, mountains to the west, kitchen in the middle. Arroz de anchoas y setas—bomba rice cooked in fish stock then finished with anchovy butter—tastes of surf and forest floor. Duck appears in two moods: slow-roasted with pears for traditionalists, or as a breast smoked over vine prunings for those who’ve holidayed in the Cotswolds. The set lunch at Empòrium (€24 weekdays) includes wine and a miniature crema catalana whose burnt-sugar crust is cracked tableside with the back of a spoon.

Vegetarians survive but do not flourish. Most kitchens will swap duck for wild mushrooms, yet the base stock is still chicken. Vegans should head for the Indian café in Empuriabrava and accept the four-kilometre drive. Children are welcomed without ceremony; high chairs appear even in stone-walled taverns older than the Bank of England, though kids’ menus are basically ham sandwiches or chips.

Where to Lay Your Head

There is no grand hotel. What you get instead are casas rurals—restored townhouses with four or five bedrooms, tiled floors and a roof terrace that catches the evening tramuntana. Can Bach sleeps eight, has a plunge pool the size of a Surrey garden pond and costs around €280 a night in May; the owner leaves a bottle of local vi negre and a note asking you to keep noise down after 23:00. Smaller couples’ options hide in the Jewish quarter: tiny balconies, beams blackened by 600 years of olive-wood smoke, and church bells that start at seven but somehow sound forgiving.

If you must have a pool and minibar, the nearest chain hotels are on the Empuriabrava strip, ten minutes by car. Their car parks fill with Dutch campers and British rowing teams; you trade medieval quiet for air-conditioning and a breakfast buffet that runs to baked beans.

When to Come, When to Leave

April and mid-September deliver 22 °C afternoons, 500-metre visibility skies and hotel prices 30 % below July. Easter processions pack the streets—hooded confraternities, brass bands that flatten the ears against stone—but the atmosphere is village solemn, not Seville spectacular. August is hot (35 °C) and the coast sucks in every spare bed; traffic on the C-260 crawls from Roses to Sant Pere Pescador. Winter is mild, occasionally raw; the basilica stays open but museums close on Monday and Tuesday, and several restaurants hibernate until Carnival.

Leave before you start recognising the butcher’s dog. Castelló works best as a two-night pause: one day for stones, one for marshes, then head inland to the volcanic landscape of La Garrotxa or seaward to the Greek ruins at Empúries where, if you stand on the breakwater, you can see the waves that once carried counts, pirates and, more recently, British kayaks heading home at sunset.