Masarac

The tramuntana wind arrives without warning, flattening the wheat and setting every weather vane spinning. In Masarac, population 299, locals call this the “hour of the north” and pull doors shut. Visitors, if they’ve timed it right, are already inside La Vinyeta’s stone barn, swirling a glass of brick-pink rosado while the winemaker explains why olives grow better on the south-facing slope. Outside, the vines shiver; inside, someone unwraps a £12 picnic of local fuet sausage and rough country bread. That contrast—sheltered conviviality versus wide-open farmland—sums up the village better than any heritage plaque.

A scatter of stone among the cereals

Masarac isn’t a nucleated hamlet with a tick-list square. It’s a loose constellation of farmhouses, some within earshot of the church bell, others half a mile down a dirt track. The parish church of Sant Martí stands solid at the geographic centre, Romanesque bones hidden beneath later patching. Walk the 200-metre “high street” and you’ll pass five front doors, two barns converted into weekend hideaways and a single vending machine that dispenses tractor oil as well as Coca-Cola. Mobile signal drops in and out; the soundtrack is mostly skylarks and distant Combine harvesters.

Altitude is a modest 85 m, yet the plain feels elevated. On clear winter mornings the snow-dusted Pyrenees hover like a stage backdrop, while thirty minutes away the Costa Brava glints silver. The land billows—there is no other word—waves of cereal, then a sudden island of Aleppo pines, then more wheat. Red poppies stitch the edges in May; by July the colour has drained to parchment. Farmers still burn stubble here, sending a brief brown smudge across an otherwise empty sky.

Wine that tastes of rosemary and salt

Empordà’s wine route has been creeping onto British itineraries since Decanter labelled the region “mini-Rhône with sea air”. La Vinyeta, five minutes’ drive from Masarac’s church, is one of the smallest yet most talked-about stops. Tours start at 11 a.m. sharp—book by WhatsApp the day before—and finish under a pergola where the tramuntana is tamed by canvas. Four wines and their own peppery olive oil cost €18; add another €8 for a cold-cut hamper that feeds two. The dry rosé, pale as onion skin, carries the faint whiff of hillside rosemary, while the red “Puntiapart” blends local gar-nacha with syrah for something darker and more serious. Bottles start at €9; UK visitors should remember Ryanair’s cabin limit or pay €25 for courier service—still cheaper than British retail markup.

If the vineyard feels too polished, head south-east to the cooperative at Espolla, where stainless-steel tanks sit opposite a tractor workshop and tasting is poured in detergent-sterilised glasses. Their entry-level white is €3.50 a litre: perfectly drinkable, faintly salty, ideal for a beach picnic later.

Flat lanes for lazy pedals

The old farm tracks that link Masarac with Peralada and Vilamaniscle are graded but not tarmacked—perfect for hybrid bikes and confidence-building teenagers. A 22-km loop heads north to the Muga marshes, returns via the medieval walls of Peralada and can be knocked off before lunch. Wind is your enemy and ally: the tramuntana can push you uphill faster than the 11-sprocket ever will, then slam against your chest on the way home. No bike shop exists in the village; hire in Figueres from Bike-Empordà (€25 a day) and strap on a spare inner tube—thorns from carob hedges are vicious.

Hikers aren’t ignored, though “summit” is a foreign concept here. The GR-2 long-distance footpath skirts the edge of Masarac’s municipal boundary, threading between grain silos and 19th-century ice houses. A dawn start in May rewards you with bee-eaters flitting overhead and dew so heavy it soaks through trainers. By 10 a.m. the sun is punitive; shade is scarce, so carry more water than you think decent.

When to come, and when to stay away

April–mid-June is the sweet spot: temperatures sit in the low twenties, wheat is green-gold and the night sky still cool enough for sleep without air-con. September repeats the trick, with added grape-harvest buzz. August is hot (35 °C is routine), accommodation prices spike and coastal traffic turns the final 10 km into crawling bumper-to-bumper. November brings the feast of Sant Martí—bonfires, a modest procession, free stew for villagers—and also the first tramuntana gales strong enough to topple bicycles. Winter is quiet, occasionally frosty, and many weekend restaurants close; if you do come, pack a jumper and expect shuttered streets by 9 p.m.

Beds, bread and the missing breakfast

Masarac itself offers no hotels, one rural cottage (sleeps six, pool, €190 a night in May) and zero shops. The nearest bakery is a seven-minute drive in Cabanes; the nearest supermarket, a Condis in Peralada with a modest British section (Weetabix €4.90). Most visitors base themselves in La Pera’s converted farmhouses—Can Massa gets repeat bookings for its views across to the Pyrenees, hearty breakfasts and host who’ll phone ahead to wineries for you. Budget travellers sometimes sleep in Figueres, where the Hotel Duran has doubles from €75 and walls crowded with faded photos of Salvador Dalí, who arrived for dinner once and never paid his bar tab, or so the barman claims.

Eating in the village limits means whatever you grilled yourself or the occasional summer pop-up barbecue in the square. For a proper sit-down, drive 12 minutes to Castelló d’Empúries and order suquet de peix—a Catalan fish stew thick enough to stand a spoon in—at Restaurant El Sindicat (mains €18-24). Book early on weekend nights; coach parties from Girona materialise without warning.

The honest verdict

Masarac will not hand you Instagram gold. There is no dramatic cliff, no tiled-roof cascade, no souvenir shop. What it does offer is space—physical and mental—at a time when the Costa Brava’s more celebrated villages heave with tour groups waving selfie sticks. Come if you like the smell of newly cut barley, if you’re content to cycle until the lane simply stops, if a winemaker remembering your name feels like travel rather than tourism. Arrive expecting cafés and nightlife and you’ll be miserable within an hour. Treat the place as a breathing space between Dalí’s theatre-museum and the Mediterranean crush, and you might leave with a case of wine, trousers dusted with chaff and the peculiar idea that 299 people have the right idea about noise.