L'Escala

The smell hits first. Not sea-salt freshness, but something sharper—anchovy brine drifting from a warehouse near the harbour where women in white coats layer silver fish into salt piles. It's nine in the morning and L'Escala is already at work, long before the first British family has finished their hotel buffet.

This is the Costa Brava without the gloss. A place where fishing boats still unload next to yachts named after Swiss banks, where medieval arches frame estate agents advertising flats to Guildford retirees, and where the best Roman ruins north of Pompeii sit quietly beside a campsite that buzzes with Dutch caravans in August.

The Sea That Pays the Bills

L'Escala's relationship with the Mediterranean is transactional. The town crouches barely fourteen metres above sea level, stretching along a shoreline that keeps changing its mind—broad sand at Riells, pocket-sized coves near the old town, then wind-sculpted dunes towards the archaeological site. Each stretch has its own microclimate. Morning swimmers at Cala Montgó can be swimming in oil-flat water while windsurfers ten minutes south are already planing past the banana boats.

The fishing fleet is modest—about twenty trawlers—yet the harbour still smells of diesel and wet rope. Nets dry on quayside bollards; gulls squabble over fish guts. If you want to see it in action, turn up around 17:00 when the boats glide back through the breakwater. There's no tourist theatre, just men hosing decks while a forklift shifts crates of sardines. Buy a kilo from the quay kiosk (cash only, €6-8) and the staff will gut them on request—though you'll need to queue behind local grandmothers who judge freshness by eye colour.

Empúries: Two Cities for the Price of One

Twenty minutes' stroll north, past the last ice-cream kiosk, the tarmac gives way to pine-shaded paths and suddenly you're walking on 2,600-year-old streets. Empúries was founded by the Greeks in 575 BC, commandeered by the Romans two centuries later, then abandoned to shifting sand. Excavations began in 1908 and archaeologists are still peeling back layers each summer.

What makes the site addictive is the clarity: you can see exactly where the Greek agora ends and the Roman forum begins, like two jigsaw puzzles shoved together. Mosaic floors shimmer in the morning light; capitals lie where they fell. Bring water—there's no café inside and shade is mythical. English audio guides are free with entry (€6.50, under-16s free) and last ninety minutes, though nothing stops you lingering at the seawall where merchants once offloaded Italian wine.

The attached museum displays coins the size of a fingernail and a bronze statue of Asklepios dredged from the harbour. Don't skip the ten-minute video; it stitches the stones together better than any guidebook.

Riells vs the Old Town: Pick Your Plot

L'Escala operates like two villages stitched by a coastal promenade. Riells, east of the river, is where the money went in the 1980s: apartment blocks with pools, British pubs showing Premier League, and a sand strip wide enough for beach volleyball. The water shelves gently—perfect for toddlers—yet the view includes a rank of cranes stacking containers at the distant port of Roses. Public loos are hidden inside the lifeguard hut; ask for the key and prepare to leave your dignity as deposit.

Cross the pedestrian bridge and you enter the original grid: narrow lanes that smell of yeast and garlic, balconies crammed with folding bikes, elderly men playing cards under the plane trees in Plaça de les Escoles. The 16th-century salt warehouse, Alfolí de la Sal, hosts rotating exhibitions—last summer a photographic chronicle of the anchovy trade drew more locals than foreigners. Next door, Bar Torrent has been slopping coffee since 1926. Order a cafè amb llet and a coixa de cavall (a pastry shaped, unappetisingly, like a horse's thigh) and you'll pay Barcelona prices, but the marble tables come with complimentary gossip.

Wind, Waves and Wednesday Markets

Afternoons can turn blowy. The tramuntana accelerates down the Pyrenean valleys, whipping up sand that stings ankles and topples deckchairs. When it hits, seasoned families migrate to Cala Montgó at the southern edge where limestone cliffs block the gusts. The walk takes forty minutes along the camí de ronda; trainers advised, flip-flops suicidal. Halfway, the path dips to Cala Illa, a rocky inlet where snorkellers float above posidonia meadows—bring bread in a plastic bag and fish will circle like Mediterranean piranhas.

Back in town, Wednesday is market day. Stallholders from Figueres lay out tablecloths printed with flamenco dancers, but head for the fish van parked by the cinema. Its marble slab displays catches still in rigor—look for clear eyes and bright red gills. If the vendor offers to fillet your hake, say yes; his knife work is faster than a Gatwick security queue.

What to Eat Without the Hard Sell

Anchovies divide opinion. Locals eat them straight from the tin with a fork; tourists expect pizza topping. At Restaurant Miryam (Carr d'Enric Serra 9) they arrive marinated in Arbequina olive oil, milder than the salt-bombs shipped to British delis. A plate of twelve costs €9; add tomato-rubbed toast and you have lunch for under fifteen quid.

Suquet de peix, the Catalan bouillabaisse, is safer for the timid. Can Blau on Passeig Marítim serves a two-person cauldron (€38) brimming with monkfish, mussels and potatoes that soak up saffron liquor. They'll bring an extra bowl for shells and won't flinch if you ask for a spoon—Catalans slurp too.

Families counting euros head to the chiringuito at Riells for sardines grilled over pine cones. Five fish, chips and a plastic cup of cloudy white wine sets you back €12. Eat quickly; wasps arrive like tiny drunken Brits abroad.

The Catch (There's Always One)

August is a glorious mess. Population quadruples; car parks near Empúries close by 10:30 a.m.; restaurant bookings require diplomacy. Yet even peak season has lulls. The beach at Sant Martí d'Empúries, a twenty-minute bike ride north, clears between 14:00 and 16:00 when the Spanish retreat for lunch and the British are still building sandcastles. The water here is clearer—Posidonia seagrass acts as a natural filter—and the beach bar plays low-key jazz instead of reggaeton.

Rain days are scarce but spectacular. When storms blow in from the Gulf of Lion, waves smash over the promenade and cafés stack chairs against shuttered doors. That's the moment to queue at Anxoves i Més (Carr Sant Josep 17) where they'll sell you a 450g tin of anchovies for €11—half the price of the airport shop and twice the size.

Getting Out Alive

No motorway punches through L'Escala; the last stretch is on the N-II, a single-carriageway where tractors hold up Dutch campers. Buses from Barcelona Nord take 2 hr 15 min (€21, book ahead in summer) and drop you outside the Turisme office—staff hand out maps but won't find you a room. Parking in August resembles a Contact improvisation class; the free dirt lot behind the police station fills by 09:30, after that you're parallel-penning on residential streets where wing mirrors fold like prayer hands.

Leave time for one last detour. Climb the Camí de Montgó at sunset—twenty minutes uphill on a cobbled track—to the stone watchtower. From here the coast unravels: the ruins glow gold, anchovy boats blink their mooring lights, and the Pyrenees float on the horizon like a broken wall. The tramuntana has dropped; only the smell of the sea remains, no longer of fish but of something older, Greek and Roman and stubbornly alive.