Saus Camallera i Llampaies

The 08:11 to Girona blasts its horn at the unmanned level crossing and the village bar loses half its clientele in thirty seconds. By the time the last carriage clatters past, the barman has already wiped the counter and reset the coffee machine. This is Camallera: a place where the railway timetable still dictates the rhythm of morning caffeine.

At 86 metres above sea level, the combined municipality of Saus, Camallera and Llampaies sits on the old lake bed of the Pla de l’Estany, thirty minutes by car from the Costa Brava’s packed coves yet psychologically much further away. The landscape is flat, grain-dominant, and unapologetically practical. There are no dramatic viewpoints, no boutique hotels in converted manor houses, no artisan gin distilleries—just three contiguous farming settlements stitched together by council decree in 1973 and held in place by cereal fields that turn from green to gold to stubble in the space of a school term.

A Trio of Churches and a Single Cash Machine

Start in Camallera, the largest of the three nuclei and the only one with services worth mentioning. The parish church of Sant Martí squats at the centre of a compact medieval grid; its sandstone walls carry layers of Romanesque, Gothic and baroque additions that historians enjoy unpicking while everyone else queues for the ATM outside the post office opposite. The square tolerates parked tractors as readily as hatchbacks, and the bakery sells a serviceable coca topped with candied fruit that locals buy by weight rather than Instagram potential.

Ten minutes west on the GR1 footpath—way-marked with white-and-red stripes—you reach Saus, population 200, built around the twelfth-century church of Sant Julià. The single-lane underpass beneath the railway is the only vehicular entrance; miss it and you’ll be carried north towards France on the N-IIa before you can swear in Catalan. Houses here are lower, streets narrower, and the silence on a Tuesday afternoon is thorough enough to make your own footsteps feel impolite.

Llampaies, another fifteen minutes across carrils of dried mud, completes the triangle. Its diminutive Sant Cristòfol stands opposite a playground so small it could fit inside a London bus garage. Children still use it; grandparents watch from kitchen windows. The village well, sealed for safety, is now a flowerpot. Nothing is staged for visitors, which is precisely why photographers with long lenses keep appearing at dawn, hoping to catch that “authentic” shot of an elderly man unlocking a wooden door. They usually leave with pictures of wheelie bins and stray cats—equally authentic, if less marketable.

Walking, Cycling and the Art of Turning Around

The council has printed a rudimentary map of three circular routes, none longer than 12 km. They follow farm tracks between wheat and barley, duck into bosc de ribera where nightingales rehearse at dusk, and deposit you back at whichever church you started from. Gradient is negligible, signage sporadic; a phone loaded with offline maps is wise. Spring brings poppies and the risk of muddy boots after irrigation; by July the soil is brick-hard and the shade non-existent. Bring water and a hat—trees are planted for crop protection, not ramblers.

Cyclists share the same dirt lanes. Road bikes suffer; hybrids cope; mountain bikes are overkill. The reward is being able to freewheel between medieval bell towers while listening to skylarks rather than tour guides. The downside is the railway: only three pedestrian crossings exist along the 4 km municipal boundary, so every loop involves a calculated dash when the barriers stay up just long enough. Miss your slot and you’ll wait eight minutes, watching the signalman’s empty hut and counting freight carriages bound for Perpignan.

Food that Doesn’t Photograph Well

Regional cooking is built around what the land produces: pork, pulses, winter greens and the short-grain bomba rice that absorbs stock without turning to mush. In the bar—it has no other name—beside Camallera station, Wednesday’s menu offers arròs de matances, a sticky rice casserole studded with black pudding and spare ribs. A bowl, half a carafe of house red and a slab of pa amb tomàquet costs €11.50. Vegetarians get escalivada (smoky aubergine and peppers) and a lecture on why lentils need ham bone for flavour.

Pudding is usually crema catalana, chilled and brittle with caramelised sugar that shatters like a crème brûlée left too long under a ferocious grill. Coffee comes in glasses; milk is optional, oat milk unknown. The kitchen shuts at 4 pm sharp—linger past three-thirty and you’ll be served with the lights half-off and the scent of bleach drifting in from the back patio.

If self-catering, track down the tractor-road stall outside town where Ca l’U sells yoghurt in mismatched jam jars. Flavours are plain or mató (fresh curd); both taste of actual cow and keep for three days without refrigeration. Pair with peaches from the Thursday market in Figueres, eight minutes away by train.

Day-Trips When You Crave Monuments

Practical geography makes the municipality a launchpad rather than a destination. The Dali Theatre-Museum in Figueres is 11 minutes by rail; tickets €17, pre-book or queue with the cruise-ship crowds. Medieval Besalú, all pointed arches and ritual baths, sits 20 minutes south by car; go early to photograph the bridge without thirty teenagers on a school trip blocking the parapet. Bird-watchers head east to Aiguamolls de l’Empordà, where hides overlook lagoons busy with storks and glossy ibis; entry is free, mosquito repellent essential from May onwards.

Beaches require compromise. L’Escala’s narrow lanes and overpriced anchovy tapas lie 25 minutes away by car; parking is €2.50 per hour after 10 am in summer. Alternatively, catch the same train north to Portbou and walk the coastal trail to Cerbère—two countries, one cliffside path, zero sand, but the Mediterranean glints 100 metres below and you’ll meet more hikers than towel-wielding families.

When to Come, Where to Sleep, How to Leave

April–June and mid-September to early November deliver clear skies, temperatures in the low twenties Celsius and fields that change colour weekly. July and August are hot, still and noisy only when the fiesta major sets up a fairground ride beside the tracks. Accommodation is limited to two rural guesthouses and a handful of Airbnb cottages; expect €70–€90 per night for a double, less if you’re happy to share a patio with the owner’s Labrador. Winter is foggy, peaceful and cheaper, but cafés reduce hours and some footpaths turn to porridge after rain.

Public transport exists but demands planning. Regional trains stop hourly in Camallera; the station has no ticket machine, so buy on board with cash. Buses are school services—off-limits to tourists. A car remains the sensible option: Girona airport is 45 minutes away via the AP-7 toll road (€7.45), Barcelona just under two hours if you avoid Friday afternoon traffic.

Check out is equally straightforward. The 18:42 southbound rattles through, horn blasting, and the bar fills again with men discussing fertilizer prices. No one will offer you a souvenir fridge magnet; you’ll leave with wheat dust on your shoes and the realisation that somewhere between the sea and the Pyrenees, Catalonia still keeps ordinary hours.