Sant Climent Sescebes

The church bell strikes noon, and the only other sound is the wind. Not a gentle breeze—this is the tramuntana, the northerly gust that shapes everything in the Empordà plain. In Sant Climent Sescebes, 86 metres above sea level and 18 kilometres from the Costa Brava, the wind is the village clock. When it drops, the temperature rises and the vines sweat. When it howls, shutters clatter and the streets empty. Nobody needs a weather app; they just listen.

A grid of stone and silence

There are no signposted viewpoints, no ticket booths, no coach bays. The old centre is a tangle of three main lanes that meet at the Romanesque church of Sant Climent, parts of which were already standing when the first English king called himself “the Conqueror”. Beyond the church the grid dissolves into farm tracks that head straight into vineyards. Houses are built from the same ochre stone as the walls, so from a distance the village looks like a geological accident rather than a settlement.

Walk the lanes at 14:30 and you’ll think the place abandoned. It isn’t; everyone is simply inside eating. Shops reopen around 17:00, but only two bother to: a small grocer that stocks tinned sardines, local olives and the Saturday papers from Barcelona, and the bakery that sells coca—Empordà’s answer to pizza—topped with roasted aubergine and onion. Both close again at 20:00 sharp. If you need cash after hours, you’re driving ten kilometres to Capmany; the nearest ATM is literally in another village.

Wine that tastes of garrigue and wind

The surrounding vineyards belong to the DO Empordà route, but only one estate welcomes casual visitors. Terra Remota, ten minutes by car along a dirt road signed “Mas Pla”, is a slick, architect-designed winery that feels transplanted from Napa until you taste the wines. The entry-level white, Camino, smells of fennel and rosemary—the plants that grow wild between the rows. A guided tasting costs €15 and must be booked online at least 24 hours ahead; they will not squeeze you in because you “happened to be passing”. If you arrive without an appointment, the gate stays shut and the dogs bark you away.

Smaller cellars exist—somebody’s grandfather will sell you a demijohn of garnacha if you ask in the bar—but labels are hand-written and alcohol levels sneeze-worthy. Bring an empty water bottle and a corkscrew.

Walking without way-markers

Sant Climent is a launchpad for walkers who don’t need drama. Paths strike out across rolling farmland towards the Albera hills, a natural buffer with France. None of the routes is longer than 12 kilometres; none climbs more than 400 metres. You’ll share the track with the occasional tractor and, in early spring, herds of caramel-coloured Albera cows that look up, chew, and ignore you. Dolmens—Neolithic stone tables—litter the scrub every couple of kilometres, but only the largest, the Creu d’en Cobertella near Capmany, gets a brown road sign. The rest sit among thyme and white rock, waiting for sharp eyes.

Carry water; there are no cafés on the lanes and mobile signal vanishes in the hollows. Download an offline map before leaving Figueres because signposting is sporadic and the Catalan names on the paper maps sold in the bakery differ slightly from those used by farmers. If the tramuntana is blowing hard, take sunglasses—dust gets everywhere.

Food that arrives when it’s ready

Evenings centre on La Parra, the single restaurant that opens daily. Tables are on a covered terrace facing the church; the owner cooks, her daughter serves, and both will apologise for the wait even when you’ve only just sat down. Order grilled botifarra, a mild pork sausage the size of a cricket bat, or the seasonal coca if you want something lighter. Starters arrive somewhere between twenty minutes and three-quarters of an hour; use the gap to drink a glass of the house white, a Terra Remota reject that costs €3.50 and tastes better than most London wine lists. Pudding is usually sheep-milk yoghurt from the Ecobnb farm outside the village; thick, sharp, and served with local honey. They don’t take cards, so bring cash from that Capmany ATM.

If La Parra is full—unlikely unless a French cycling club has booked—drive five kilometres to the motorway junction at El Pertús, where a Catalan-French couple run a roadside grill specialising in cargols a la llauna: snails roasted with garlic and parsley. They’re chewy, salty, and exactly what you expect from border-bar cuisine.

When to come, when to stay away

April and late-September are ideal. The vines are either fresh green or turning copper, temperatures sit in the low twenties, and daylight lingers long enough for an evening walk. Easter weekend brings a small-scale Passion Play in the church square; dialogue is entirely in Catalan but the costumes are worth seeing even if you understand nothing.

August is hot, often 35 °C by midday, and the village’s summer fiesta means amplified disco music until 03:00. If you need silence, book elsewhere. November, when the Festa Major honours the village patron, can be atmospheric—bonfires, roasted chestnuts, plenty of red wine—but the tramuntana cuts straight through fleece and Gore-Tex. Winter nights regularly drop to 3 °C; most rural hotels close from January to March because heating costs outweigh bookings.

Getting here, getting stuck

Girona airport is 70 minutes away on the AP-7; Barcelona takes two hours. Hire a car—public transport is theoretical. Two buses leave Figueres each weekday, one at 07:15, the other at 14:00. The return legs are 12:30 and 18:00; miss the last and you’re sleeping among the vines. Trains from London Gatwick to Girona run twice weekly on Ryanair; if the wind is against you, expect the sort of landing that reminds you why tray tables must be upright.

Once here, parking is free and unrestricted; leave the car on the rough ground opposite the church and walk. Petrol is sold from a 24-hour pump at the motorway exit near El Pertús—handy on departure day, because the village garages closed years ago.

The bottom line

Sant Climent Sescebes will never top a “must-see” list. It offers no beach, no souvenirs, no nightlife beyond a bar that shuts at ten. What it does provide is a ringside seat to a landscape that has been farmed since Iberians herded goats here, and a chance to calibrate your watch to the tramuntana instead of your phone. Come prepared—cash, offline maps, half a tank of fuel—and the village repays with silence, honest sausages, and a white wine that tastes of wild herbs. Forget any of the above and you’ll spend the evening waiting for a bus that left at lunchtime, wondering why nobody warned you.