Vilaür

The church bells strike noon, and the only other sound is wheat rustling in the breeze. From Vilaur's modest elevation—sixty-five metres above the surrounding plain—you can scan the entire Alt Empordà: cereal plots checkered like a patchwork quilt, the Pyrenees rising white-toothed to the north, and, on very clear days, a silver sliver of the Gulf of Roses thirty kilometres away. Few British travellers make it here; most speed past on the AP-7 bound for Cadaqués or Roses. That single fact shapes a stay more than any monument or museum ever could.

A grid of stone and silence

Vilaur’s population hovers around 167, a figure that shrinks further when harvest contracts take labourers elsewhere. The village is laid out on a tight medieval grid: two main lanes intersect at the plaça, where the Romanesque-bell-tower of Sant Feliu keeps watch. Houses are built from honey-coloured stone quarried nearby; lintels still carry 18-century dates and the odd mason’s mark. There are no souvenir shops, no boutique hotels, no terrace bars with English menus—just a bakery that opens at six, shuts at two, and doubles as the newspaper exchange. Carry coins; contactless terminals haven’t arrived.

Walking the grid takes twenty minutes if you dawdle. Better to stretch it to an hour by ducking into the narrowest passages—Carrer Ample narrows to shoulder width—where swallow nests clog the upper corners and light bounces off whitewashed walls like a camera flash. Keep an eye on rooflines: terracotta tiles have been replaced piecemeal for centuries, so every slope is a colour chart of ochre, rust and brick.

The horizon as an itinerary

Flat countryside sounds dull until you borrow a bike from the rural guesthouse at the edge of town. A sealed lane heads west, dead-straight for four kilometres, then fragments into farm tracks that link Vilaur with equally tiny Vilamalla and Cabanes. Traffic is negligible; you’re more likely to meet a tractor hauling irrigation pipe than a car. The tarmac is smooth enough for touring bikes, though bring spare tubes—thorns from carob trees have a talent for finding inner tubes.

Spring brings a colour swing that would turn a Flemish master green. Between late March and early May poppies ignite the wheat, while almond blossom fogs the roadside with white petals. By July the palette turns gold and the air smells of sun-hit straw; cycling becomes an early-morning activity. Temperatures routinely top 35 °C, yet the low humidity makes it more bearable than the Costa Brava’s seaside steam bath. Autumn is the locals’ favourite season: warm days, cool nights, and harvest dust hanging like gold dust in the low sun.

Eating by kilometre, not postcode

Vilaur itself has no restaurant, a fact that surprises visitors expecting at least a village bar. Instead, gastronomy is scattered across neighbouring farmhouses and small-town eateries within a ten-minute drive. Can Xiquet in Vila-sacra (6 km) serves a three-course menu del dia for €18 that might start with escalivada (smoky aubergine and peppers) and finish with crema catalana torched to order. If you’d rather not drive, phone ahead; many chefs will collect and return guests for the price of a round of drinks.

The Empordà wine denomination is gaining ground among British importers, though bottles rarely leave Catalonia in quantity. Try a glass of garnatxa blanca—white Grenache—at Celler Mas Miqueliu in Fortià (8 km). The vineyard occupies an old cattle barn; tastings happen among stainless-steel tanks that still smell faintly of fermented grain. Expect to pay €8 for three generous pours, served with bread rubbed with tomato and a thread of local olive oil sharp enough to make your tongue tingle.

When the plain turns wild

Vilaur’s agricultural calm stops abruptly at the Aiguamolls de l’Empordà, a coastal wetland twenty minutes away by car. Park at El Cortalet visitor centre (free) and follow the boardwalk through reed beds that rattle like dried beans. Purple herons and glossy ibis are common; in April you might spot a migrating honey-buzzard riding thermals overhead. Bring binoculars, but leave the long lens at home—park wardens politely ask photographers to stay on designated paths to avoid disturbing nesting colonies.

Back on higher ground, the Gavarres massif rises south of the plain. From Vilaur it’s a half-hour drive to the ridge road that links Sant Martí Vell with Casavells. Walk the fifteen-kilometre loop that drops into cork-oak forest before climbing to a Romanesque chapel whose doorway is carved with a chessboard pattern. The trail is way-marked but rocky; trainers suffice in dry weather, though the stone can turn slick after rain. Winter snow is almost unheard-of, yet northerly winds can knife through three layers—pack a windproof even in April.

Beds, buses and the British question

Accommodation within the village limits is limited to two rural houses, both converted from 19-century farm buildings. Les Eres de Vilaur sleeps six and has a small pool sunk into what was once a grain store; prices start at €120 per night for the whole house, dropping to €90 outside July–August. Breakfast isn’t provided, though the owner leaves coffee, local honey and a loaf of pa de pagès—the crusty country bread that keeps for days. Mobile coverage patchy on O2 and Three; Vodafone and EE fare better.

Public transport exists but requires patience. A twice-daily bus links Vilaur with Figueres (25 min); from there, trains run roughly hourly to Girona (40 min) and Barcelona (1 hr 55 min). The last connection back from Figueres leaves at 19:10—miss it and a taxi costs around €35. Hiring a car at Girona airport remains the simplest option; the drive takes 45 minutes via the C-66, a route that skirts the industrial estates around Flaçà and then dissolves into sunflower fields.

The honest verdict

Vilaur will never feature on a "Top Ten Catalan Villages" list—and that is precisely its appeal. Come for the hush, the wide-skied cycling, and the sense of eavesdropping on everyday rural life. Do not come for nightlife, retail therapy, or beach bars: the nearest sand is a 35-minute drive, and even there the shoreline is fringed with camper-vans rather than cocktail waiters. Bring a paperback, insect repellent for May evenings, and enough Spanish or Catalan to order coffee without pointing. Master those basics and Vilaur offers something increasingly scarce: a corner of Mediterranean Europe where the loudest noise at midday is your own bicycle freewheeling down a country lane.