Santa Llogaia d'Àlguema

The church bells ring at noon, and for a moment the only sound in Santa Llogaia d'Àlguema is the wind moving through the cereal fields. From the church steps you can see the Pyrenees rising in the distance, snow-capped even in late spring, while behind you the Mediterranean glints just 15 kilometres away. This is the Alt Empordà in miniature: mountain air meeting sea breeze, ancient farmland pressed between two worlds.

At 42 metres above sea level, Santa Llogaia sits low enough to catch the coastal warmth but high enough to avoid the summer crowds that swamp nearby Roses and Empuriabrava. The village proper houses 382 permanent residents, though that number swells slightly when Barcelona families arrive for weekend lunches at the single restaurant. They've come for the same reason visitors have always come here: to remember what Catalonia looked like before the holiday apartments arrived.

The church that named a village

The parish church of Santa Leocadia dominates the one-street centre, its sandstone walls showing centuries of architectural pragmatism. Romanesque foundations support Gothic additions, while the bell tower dates from a 17th-century rebuild after the French burned through during the Reapers' War. Step inside and you'll find the interior refreshingly plain – no baroque excess here, just whitewashed walls and the original wooden pulpit carved from local oak. The saint herself, Santa Leocadia, watches from a modest altarpiece; she was a fourth-century martyr from Toledo, her name Catalanised into 'Llogaia' over centuries of local pronunciation.

The church's simplicity reflects the village's character. This was never a feudal centre or bishopric, just a farming community that needed somewhere to pray between harvests. The font still bears the inscription of the priest who served here for forty-three years, his Latin weathered but legible: "Hic domus Dei, porta caeli" – this is the house of God, the gate of heaven. He might have added that it's also the best viewpoint for watching storks circle the fields, their nests balanced precariously on telegraph poles.

Where the masías still work

Santa Llogaia's real architecture lies scattered across its municipal boundaries: traditional masías, the fortified farmhouses that defined Catalan rural life. Drive three kilometres north-east and you'll find Mas Pau, its stone walls three feet thick, original olive press still intact in the barn. The current owners, fourth-generation farmers, will show you the Roman numerals carved into the kitchen beam – 1789, the year their ancestor bought the place at auction following the French Revolution's chaos.

These masías aren't museum pieces. They still function as working farms, their fields rotating between wheat, sunflowers and the alfalfa that feeds local dairy herds. The landscape unfolds like a medieval tapestry: dry-stone walls marking ancient boundaries, cypress trees standing sentinel over wells, the occasional ruin of a sharecropper's cottage slowly surrendering to ivy. In early summer, the wheat shimmers gold against red poppies; by October, the stubble fields host migrating cranes heading south from central Europe.

The village's agricultural rhythm means seasons matter. Visit in March and you'll smell the first grass cuttings, see farmers repairing stone walls before the heat arrives. June brings the wheat harvest, massive combines working through the night to beat the thunderstorms that roll in from the Pyrenees. November means olives, entire families spreading nets beneath ancient trees, the air sharp with the scent of crushed fruit. January? January is for pruning vines and planning, the land resting under thin winter sun.

Walking where Romans walked

Santa Llogaia sits on a network of rural paths that predate the automobile, their routes established by Roman soldiers and medieval traders. The GR-92 long-distance footpath passes two kilometres south, but the real pleasure lies in the local camins – unpaved tracks that connect the village to its neighbours. Walk the Camí de Peralada and you'll pass Iberian ruins from 300 BC, their stone foundations visible through wild rosemary. The path climbs gently through almond groves, emerging after ninety minutes at Castelló d'Empúries, where Gothic arcades surround a 13th-century Jewish quarter.

Cyclists find flatter terrain here than in the Pyrenean foothills. The Via Verde of the Empordà follows an old railway line from Sant Pere Pescador to Figueres, passing within five kilometres of Santa Llogaia. Rent bikes in Figueres (€15 per day from Bicicletes Sans) and you can reach the village via country lanes, stopping at the roadside hut where an elderly couple sells honey from their own hives. The honey tastes of rosemary and thyme, the flavours of these particular fields at this particular altitude.

Those seeking serious hiking should head north instead. The Albera Massif rises within twenty kilometres, its lower slopes covered in cork oak and strawberry trees. The summit of Sant Quirze de Colera offers views across three countries on clear days: France to the north, the Catalan coast eastward, and the Pyrenees marking the Spanish-French border. The walk takes four hours return from the monastery ruins, but start early – afternoon clouds often obscure the panorama.

What to eat when there's nowhere to eat

Santa Llogaia's single restaurant, Cal Xirricló, opens only on weekends outside summer months. The menu changes daily depending on what local suppliers deliver: might be suquet de peix (fish stew) made with whatever the Roses boats caught that morning, or duck with pears from the orchard behind the church. Book ahead – there are twelve tables and word spreads. Locals arrive at 2pm sharp, the men still wearing their work boots, discussing wheat prices over bottles of Empordà wine.

Weekday visitors should drive ten minutes to Castelló d'Empúries, where Restaurant El Dorado serves proper Catalan cooking without coastal prices. Their escalivada – roasted aubergine and peppers dressed with local olive oil – tastes of smoke and summer. The rice dishes feed two comfortably; order the arròs negre and your teeth will turn purple from the squid ink, a small price for flavour that intense.

For self-catering, Figueres offers the nearest proper supermarkets, but stop at the Saturday morning market in Castelló instead. Here, farmers from Santa Llogaia and surrounding villages sell vegetables picked the previous afternoon. The tomatoes actually taste of tomatoes, their skins splitting with ripeness. Buy some local fuet sausage, a crusty loaf from the bakery on Plaça Jaume I, and you've got lunch sorted. The bakery's been using the same sourdough starter since 1923; they won't tell you the recipe, but they'll sell you enough bread to make you stop asking.

When to come, when to stay away

Spring brings the Empordà at its best. From mid-April through May, the fields blaze yellow with rapeseed flowers, the air thick with their honey scent. Temperatures hover around 20°C, perfect for walking without the summer crowds. The village's single guesthouse opens in April; book Masia Rural Can Massuet for rooms with original beams and a pool that overlooks wheat fields. They'll arrange bike hire and pack picnics, though you'll need Spanish or Catalan – English is limited here.

Summer means heat and harvest. July temperatures regularly hit 35°C, the land shimmering under intense sun. The village empties as locals flee to coastal second homes, leaving only the hardcore farmers and a handful of visitors seeking authentic rural Spain. August brings the local fiesta, three days of paella competitions and outdoor dancing that finishes with a communal breakfast at 6am. It's charming unless you're staying next to the plaza – the music stops precisely never.

Autumn offers perhaps the best balance. September still feels summery but without August's chaos, the wheat stubble fields turning bronze in afternoon light. October means mushroom season; locals guard their secret spots but might share if you buy them a drink. November brings the olive harvest, and some masías let visitors help in exchange for lessons in traditional pressing techniques. Your arms will ache, but you'll never taste fresher oil.

Winter is quiet, sometimes too quiet. The restaurant closes entirely in January, the guesthouse follows in February. Days remain mild – rarely below 5°C – but northern Tramontana winds can make cycling miserable. Come now only if you seek absolute solitude, the kind where church bells mark time and farmers nod greeting without stopping work. The land needs its rest, and Santa Llogaia needs its anonymity. Some places are better left undiscovered, or at least undiscovered by coach parties. This is one of them.