Pedret i Marzà

The tractor appears at seven-thirty, headlights still on, dragging a wake of gulls behind it like white confetti. From the upper terrace of the old stone casa pairal you can watch the driver—shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow—turn the irrigated wheat at the exact moment the sun clears the Pyrenees. That is the morning news in Pedret i Marzà: soil, not scrolls.

At barely 22 m above sea level, the municipality sits on a shelf of land that feels higher. The plain drops gently northwards until it dissolves into the Aiguamolls wetlands, while southwards the first low ridges announce the Albères, the last Catalan foothills before France. The result is an horizon so wide it tricks the eye; storks crossing from Africa use it as a runway, and on clear winter evenings you can make out the rose-coloured flank of Canigó 80 km away.

Romanesque for the curious, not the coach parties

There are no ticket booths, audio guides or postcards in either of the two hamlets. Sant Esteve de Pedret (11th–12th c.) stands open, its south doorway patched with iron staples where someone once tried to prise out the stone. Inside, the single nave smells of dust and candle stubs; the altar frontal is a simple pine table draped with an embroidered cloth that rotates according to the liturgical calendar. A hand-written notice asks for one euro toward roof tiles—drop it into the sardine tin by the door.

Drive the 2 km of country lane to Marzà and Santa Maria offers a different mood. The building was Gothicised in the 16th century, so the apse is taller and the light colder. Locals have left a sheaf of wheat and a bottle of olive oil on the window ledge: harvest tithe, still observed. The key hangs from a nail in the priest’s house opposite; if the shutters are closed, knock—Doña Montse will appear with a pair of budgerigars on her shoulder and a conspiratorial smile.

Between the two nuclei the road is edged with masies, the farmhouses that define this landscape. Many still carry the original names—Cal Galliner, Ca l’Ardiaca—painted in iron oxide on the lintel. Some are shuttered ruins swallowed by brambles; others have been bought by week-enders from Barcelona who restore the stone but keep the threshing floor as a conversation piece. The mix is part of the place’s honesty: nothing here has been frozen for show.

Flat roads, big skies, zero way-markers

The municipality has never invested in sign-posted loops, which keeps the walkers’ count low and the atmosphere quiet. You simply set off along the farm tracks that radiate from each hamlet like spokes. A sensible circuit: leave Marzà by the concrete lane heading west, fork right after the peach orchards, and follow the raised bank between irrigation ditches until Pedret’s church tower re-appears. The distance is 5 km, the gradient negligible, the surface firm enough for a city bike. Take binoculars: crested larks flick in and out of the stubble, and on breezy days marsh harriers drift up from the lagoons.

Spring brings the biggest bird spectacle—hundreds of white storks heading north use the thermals above the plain as an elevator. Autumn swaps them for honey-buzzards and short-toed eagles; the local farmer hangs old CDs on twine to keep them off the chickens, creating accidental disco balls that flash across the fields.

If you need a target, head for the ruined windmill 1 km south of Pedret. The tower is locked, but the earth bank gives a 360-degree platform: north to the sea, south to the mountains, east to the nuclear roof of Figueres (close enough to remind you civilisation still exists). Bring a packed lunch; there is no bar at either hamlet, and the nearest bakery is a 10-minute drive away in Garriguella.

What you won’t find (and might miss)

Pedret i Marzà has no cash machine, no petrol station, no Sunday newspaper. The single tienda opens Tuesday and Friday 09:00–13:00, sells tinned sardines, detergent and local wine in unlabelled 75 cl bottles for €3. Stock up in Figueres before you arrive; the Consum supermarket on the N-II has a British section if you need Marmite comfort.

Mobile coverage is patchy inside the older houses—three-foot stone walls were not designed for 5G. Wi-Fi is usually tied to the rental villa next door; ask for the password before the owner disappears to Barcelona. Power cuts happen during summer storms; the village generator kicks in after ten minutes, but keep a torch by the bed.

Flies can drive you to distraction the day after rain. Farmers spread chicken manure on the fields and the air fills with determined black squadrons. Locals freeze kitchen waste until collection day; visitors should pack repellent and keep doors closed at dusk.

Eating within reach

You will not eat in Pedret itself, but you are rarely more than 15 minutes from a decent meal. Can Xiquet in Vilamaniscle (10 min) holds a Michelin star yet charges £55 for five courses—half what you’d pay in London, and the terrace faces west across vineyards. Book ahead; they will email the menu in English if you ask. Closer still, the Celler de Capçanes co-operative at the edge of Marçà village (8 min) offers drop-in tastings. Try the Garnatxa Blanca with a slab of local goat’s cheese; they ship cases to the UK for around €6 a bottle.

If you prefer to cook, the Saturday morning market in Garriguella is five minutes by car. Stallholders sell peaches so juicy you need to eat them over a sink, and wine by the litre decanted from a stainless-steel tank—bring your own bottle, €2.40. For fish, drive to Llançà port (13 min) where the daily catch is auctioned at 17:00; buy whatever is left on the slab—usually bream or sardines—and grill it with a squeeze of Empordà lemon.

When the plain turns silver

Stay overnight if you can. At dusk the wheat stubble reflects the sky like polished pewter; the irrigation ditches become strips of mercury. Owls start up from the poplars, and the temperature drops ten degrees in half an hour—bring a jumper even in July. From the upper terrace of most holiday houses you can watch lightning flicker over the sea without hearing the thunder, a silent spectacle that makes the Costa Brava feel like someone else’s problem.

Leave early next morning. The tractor will already be out, the gulls wheeling, the plain smelling of damp earth and diesel—a reminder that this corner of Catalonia keeps time to the seasons, not to the traveller’s clock.