Llançà

The fish auction starts at five o'clock sharp. Stand on the harbour wall with a €2 can of Estrella and you'll watch crates of red mullet and gilt-head bream sold off in rapid-fire Catalan while the boats that caught them bob three metres away. No microphone, no theatre, just the day's business wrapping up before the bars start serving dinner. This is Llancà, a working port that happens to have beaches rather than the other way round.

Harbour, Hills and the Tramuntana

The town sits four metres above sea level on the last proper bay before France, shielded from the tramuntana wind by the 500-metre ridges of the Albera range. When that wind blows – and it does, suddenly and several times a month – the sea turns milky, café parasols take flight and sensible folk swap swimwear for walking boots. The GR-92 coastal path climbs straight out of the back streets, switching from sea to mountain in fifteen minutes flat. In January you can breakfast on the beach and find dusting of snow on the peaks behind you by elevenses.

Three distinct bits make up the municipality. Down by the water, the Port de la Vall still hauls in enough catch to keep a dozen trawlers profitable; their nets dry on the quay opposite the kayak centre. Uphill, the old centre is four streets of stone houses built tight against each other for pirate protection, now filled with doctors, teachers and the occasional Londoner who discovered you can buy a two-bed for £180k. Two kilometres north, the Grifeu neighbourhood spreads out in low villas and small hotels that feel closer to rural France than the Costa Brava – hydrangeas and pine-scented gardens rather than neon bars.

Beaches for People Who Hate Sand in Their Sandwiches

Llancà's shoreline is a string of coves, not a mile-long sweep. The main Platja del Port is only 180 m long; turn up after ten on an August morning and you'll be playing sardines with the French who've crossed the border for the day. Bring rock shoes: it's coarse shingle until you're waist-deep. Locals claim the water clarity beats the Caribbean; what they don't mention is that you need to wade past a few sea-urchin gardens first.

Smarter bathers walk ten minutes north to Cala Grifeu, where pine roots grow into the water and the seabed is mostly sand. Even better, continue another kilometre on the cliff path to Cala Borró, a pocket beach that fits twenty towels and has no facilities whatsoever – bring water and something to sit on or suffer the consequences. The brave scramble down to Cala Bramant, a rock platform rather than a beach, where the water is deep enough to jump straight off the edge. Mobile signal dies halfway along the path; consider it part of the charm.

Kayaks, Monkfish and Sunday Lock-Down

Sea kayaking is the activity British visitors rave about. SK Kayak, tucked between the fishing co-op and the chandlers, hands out watertight phone pouches and pushes families onto glass-calm water at 9 a.m. before the wind wakes up. A two-hour paddle north reaches the Cap de Ras headland and a sea cave big enough to turn the boat inside; dolphins sometimes beat you to it. Expect to pay €35 for a double kayak, €25 single, including buoyancy aid and a quick vocabulary lesson – esquerra for left, dreta for right.

Back on land, the gastronomy is resolutely pescaor-to-plate. The harbour restaurants – Miramar, El Moll, Tres Vaixells – display the day's haul on chipped metal trays: whitebait, scorpion fish, the prized gamba de Llancà that costs €28 a portion because the boats pulled it from 80 m down that morning. Order suquet, a potato-fish stew that uses the ugly specimens too bony to grill, and drink the local white, Terraprima, sold by the carafe for €12. Vegetarians get the consolation prize of escalivada, smoky aubergine and peppers, plus the knowledge they aren't in Brighton any more.

Sunday is sacred. The bakeries shut at noon, the supermarket pulls down its shutter at 1 p.m. and nothing reopens until Monday. Plan ahead: buy picnic supplies on Saturday or reserve a table at Miramar before you even pack your suitcase. The only movement after lunch is the old men playing petanca beside the church and the occasional jogger being eyeballed as if they’ve invented a new sin.

Getting Here, Staying Sane

Llancà sits on the main Barcelona-Portbou railway; the station is a steep ten-minute walk above town, so pack wheels on your bag. Regional trains from Girona airport take 55 minutes and cost €8.40 – blissfully easy unless you land after eight, when the service stops and a taxi demands €100. Driving saves the slog uphill with suitcases but August parking is a blood sport; follow the brown signs to the Poliesportiu and abandon the car on the free gravel behind the rugby pitch. From there it's an eight-minute walk to the beach, which is quicker than circling for a non-existent space on the front.

Accommodation is mostly small. The three-star Hotel Gri-Mar faces the fishing boats and does clean doubles for €120 in May, €210 in August. Self-caterers should ask for a corner apartment in the 1970s block at Port Esportiu – the ones with harbour-view balconies cost the same as the car-park-view ones if you book direct. Camping enthusiasts head two kilometres inland to Canyelles, where pine-shaded pitches cost €28 including hot showers and a pool that stays open until 10 p.m.

When to Cut Your Losses

Come in late May or mid-September for 24-degree water and restaurant owners who have time to chat. July and August are a different film: traffic queues at the frontier, French teenagers blasting music from hatchbacks, and the bakery running out of croissants before you've rubbed the sleep from your eyes. Winter is proper local: sunny days of 15 degrees, shuttered ice-cream kiosks, and the tramuntana howling so hard the seagulls fly backwards. Hotels close, but the trains still run and the fishermen still sail – bring a coat and you'll have the coastal path to yourself.

Llancà won't change your life. It doesn't do flamenco nights or all-you-can-drink sangria. What it offers is a slice of coastal Catalonia that still belongs to the people who live there, where the day's excitement is the price of sardines and the evening's decision is which cove to swim in before supper. Turn up expecting fireworks and you'll be disappointed. Turn up ready to match the slow rhythm of harbour and hill and you might, like the Londoners who now hog the property adverts, find yourself checking train timetables home with half a mind to stay.