La Selva de Mar

The church bell strikes noon, echoing off stone walls so narrow that neighbours can shake hands across the alley. Somewhere below, unseen, the Mediterranean glints through olive branches. La Selva de Mar hangs between two worlds—close enough to smell salt on the wind, yet stubbornly turned inland, a village that never quite made it to the coast.

This is the first surprise. Most travellers storm past on the C-260, bound for the sandy crescents of El Port de la Selva or the yacht-crammed harbour of Port de la Selva, assuming anything with "mar" in its name must come with a beach towel. Instead they find a settlement wedged into the last folds of the Sierra de Rodes, 48 metres above sea level and still climbing. The road twists upward, vineyards giving way to stone terraces held together by gravity and medieval dry-stone walls. Then the village appears: a tight knot of honey-coloured houses, their balconies just wide enough for a geranium pot and a pair of watching eyes.

A Village That Never Needed the Sea

La Selva de Mar grew rich on what it could coax from thin soil: olives, vines, and the occasional flock of goats that still wander the upper lanes. The sea was always there, two kilometres away as the crow flies, but the villagers were mountain people. They built thick walls to blunt the tramontana, the north wind that can rip at 100 km/h, and they oriented their streets so the gusts would whistle overhead rather than slam into doorways. Walk Carrer Major on a windy afternoon and you’ll feel the draught lift your hair like a mischievous child; step one street across to Carrer de l’Església and the air falls still, warm, scented by rosemary escaping someone’s garden.

The parish church of Sant Feliu squats at the highest point, its squat bell-tower more watchtower than campanile. Inside, the cool darkness smells of candle wax and centuries of damp stone. There is no ornate retablo, no gilded excess—just a single Gothic arch and a 17th-century font where every local baby has been baptised for 400 years. Come on a Sunday morning and you’ll hear the priest announce the deaths, marriages and football scores in the same breath; leave a coin on the plate and the elderly sacristan will unlock a side chapel to show you a fragment of Romanesque carving found when the roof was last repaired.

Walking on Slate and History

Footpaths radiate from the village like veins. The easiest follows the stream bed south-west towards vineyards owned by Mas Estela, a winery that greets English-speakers with a shrug and a cracked jug of bread-and-oil. Their tasting room is a converted stable; the slate floor is original, the table an old door. Pouring a pale white made from Garnatxa Blanca, the winemaker explains how the tramontana stresses the grapes, thickening skins and concentrating flavour. A bottle to go costs €12—cash only, because the card machine blew down the valley last winter.

More ambitious walkers can join the GR-11 long-distance trail where it skirts the village boundary. Head north and the path climbs through umbrella pines to the ruins of Sant Pere de Rodes, an 11th-century Benedictine monastery that once commanded the whole cape. The ascent is 400 metres of calf-burning switchbacks; the reward is a view that stretches from the French Albera massif to the lighthouse at Cap de Creus. Allow three hours return, carry more water than you think necessary, and don’t trust the weather forecast: sea fog can roll in faster than you can unfold a map.

Cyclists find quieter rewards. The loop south to Vilajuïga and back via Pau is 28 km of rolling country lanes, olive groves and the occasional free-ranging dog that has heard of cyclists but never actually caught one. Road surfaces are good; gradients rarely top six percent unless the tramontana is behind you, in which case you’ll swear someone has fitted a motor to your back wheel.

The Food Question—Solved Two Kilometres Away

La Selva de Mar itself has no restaurants, no bars, nowhere to buy a loaf after the mini-market closes at 14:00. This is not an oversight; it is simply too small to keep a business open year-round. Instead, residents drive, cycle or walk the two-kilometre descent to El Port de la Selva for supper. Casa Carmeta, a no-frills waterfront joint, grills sardines over vine cuttings and serves them with what the menu honestly calls “chipped potatoes”. A plate of three fat fish costs €9; add a half-litre of cloudy local white and you’re still under twenty. If you hanker after something that reminds you of home, the next-door bar will sell you a baguette filled with tortilla for €3.50, but you’ll have to pronounce the “ll” correctly or they’ll pretend not to understand.

Back in the village, evening entertainment is self-catered. Buy tomatoes and soft goat’s cheese at the Saturday market in El Port, pick up a bottle of Empordà red from the cooperative in Vilajuïga, and carry everything uphill. The tiny plaça in front of the church catches the last sun; someone will lend you a plastic chair, and the local cats will supervise while you slice bread with a penknife. Lights go out early—street lighting is deliberately dim so as not to spoil star-gazing—but keep voices down anyway. Sound carries in the narrow lanes, and the retired farmer next door is perfectly capable of leaning out and suggesting, politely but firmly, that you’ve had enough rioja for one night.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Spring brings almond blossom and the smell of wet earth. Temperatures hover around 18 °C, ideal for walking, but carry a waterproof: April showers here can be theatrical. Autumn is warmer than you’d expect; the sea holds summer heat and releases it at night, so September evenings are T-shirt weather while the mountains behind already smell of woodsmoke. Both seasons are quiet—perhaps a dozen visitors on any given day.

August is a different story. The village itself remains calm, but every rental house within a 10-km radius is full of Catalan families barbecuing rabbit and arguing about beach towels. Coastal car parks are gridlocked by 10 a.m.; the road up from El Port becomes a single-lane negotiation between reversing Fiat Pandas and over-optimistic British motorhomes. If you must come in high summer, arrive on a Tuesday, leave by Friday, and book dinner before you set off.

Winter is for the hardy. The tramontana can blow for a week straight, whipping the olive trees into silver-sided waves. Shops and wineries keep shorter hours; some close entirely from January to March. Yet the light is extraordinary—low, sharp, turning every stone wall into a sculpture—and you will have the footpaths to yourself. Bring layers, a windproof jacket, and a torch for the walk back from the bar. The village’s only licensed taxi driver, Josep, will collect you from El Port for €10, but he goes to bed at 22:30 sharp.

Leaving Without Goodbye

Check-out is simple: no traffic lights to negotiate, no souvenir shops for last-minute magnets. Roll your suitcase down the cobbles, past the house where someone is already sweeping yesterday’s dust into the gutter, and the village ends as abruptly as it began. One moment you are between walls; the next, vineyards open and the sea reappears, a bright slash on the horizon.

Drive away slowly. The road demands it, and the rear-view mirror keeps La Selva de Mar suspended like a question: why build so close to the water yet turn your back on it? The answer is there in the olives, in the wind-bent pines, in the stubborn refusal to be anything other than what it is—a place that chose mountains over waves, silence over sand, and never once apologised for the choice.