Cava

The train from Barcelona squeals to a halt at Sant Sadurní d'Anoia station and the doors open onto something unexpected: air that smells faintly of pastry and fermenting grapes instead of diesel. Forty minutes earlier you were dodging skateboards on the Ramblas; now you're standing in the self-declared capital of Cava, a town of 12,000 that produces more bottles of quality fizz each year than the entire Champagne region.

This is Catalonia's answer to Reims, only flatter, warmer and considerably less fond of ceremony. There's no avenue of grand marques here. Instead, producers are tucked between bakeries and block-of-flats architecture from the 1970s. The cellars run underground, 12–30 m beneath the streets, hollowed out of soft limestone that keeps the wine at a constant 16 °C. Even in August the tunnels feel like a wine fridge; bring a jumper or regret it after the second tasting.

Underground cathedrals and human castles

Codorníu, the oldest house (est. 1551), greets visitors with a modernist brick winery designed by Josep Puig i Cadafalch, the lesser-known contemporary of Gaudí. The façade is pretty enough, but the real spectacle lies below: 30 km of vaulted corridors where 100 million bottles sleep in riddling racks. The tour finishes with a glass of vintage gran reserva that tastes of toasted almond and lemon zest, served on a terrace looking across vineyards to the forested ridge of Montserrat. Standard visit €18; book the English slot before 11 a.m. or you'll be shunted into a Spanish group clutching translation sheets.

Smaller bodegas operate more casually. At family-run Recaredo, a five-minute walk from the station, you ring a bell and someone in rubber boots appears. Their speciality is brut nature: zero dosage, aged minimum 30 months, disgorged by hand. The tasting happens beside the desk where invoices are typed, surrounded by boxes bound for Copenhagen and Tokyo. You sip, they explain the difference between macabeu and xarel·lo grapes, and suddenly an hour has vanished. Groups are capped at eight; €15 buys three wines and a slab of sponge cake that someone's aunt baked that morning.

Time your visit for late morning on a Saturday and you might stumble into a castells rehearsal in the main square. Teams of castellers stack themselves three storeys high, children wearing crash helmets climb like mountaineers, and a granny on the front row counts layers in rapid Catalan. Nobody charges admission; it's simply what townsfolk do before lunch. British visitors often describe the scene as "completely bonkers but brilliant", a phrase that rarely appears in Champagne marketing.

Between vineyard and beach

The genius of a Cava trip is the geography. Mountains protect the coastal plain from cold north winds, giving the grapes enough warmth for ripeness while retaining acidity. Thirty minutes after swirling wine in a limestone cave you can be swimming off Sitges, the pastel seaside town where promenade restaurants pour local brut by the glass for €4. The contrast feels illicit: one moment cellar mould and the scent of yeast, the next salt spray and suntan lotion.

If you base yourself in Sitges, the train timetable lets you zig-zag between beach and bodega without a car. Morning swim, 11:06 commuter train inland, tastings finished by two, back on the sand for a late lunch of grilled sardines. Try doing that between Épernay and Paris without a headache.

Should you hire a car, the country lanes west of Sant Sadurní weave through vineyards, almond orchards and villages that appear deserted until an elderly man on a Vespa rattles past. Stop at Calçot Vell in Vilafranca del Penedès for winter calçotadas: long spring onions charred over vine cuttings, wrapped in newspaper and served with romesco sauce that stains every finger scarlet. Locals wear bibs; swallow your pride and do likewise. A dozen calçots, lamb chops and a jug of house Cava cost about €25 a head; bookings essential on Sundays when half of Barcelona drives up.

What to drink and what to dodge

British supermarkets have conditioned us to regard Cava as something for £6.99 that tastes of bubble bath. In situ the spectrum is far wider. At the budget end, basic brut from co-ops delivers clean green-apple refreshment for under €10 a bottle. Move to reserva level (15 months ageing) and you pick up brioche notes; gran reserva (30 months) brings hazelnut, dried flowers and the finesse that gives Champagne houses sleepless nights. The truly curious should seek out corpinnat producers, a break-away guild that uses only hand-picked organic grapes and long ageing. Their wines cost more but routinely outscore big-brand champagnes in blind tastings conducted by Decanter.

Avoid August weekends if you can. Spaniards descend in hatchbacks, tours fill by 10 a.m. and the queue at the station ticket machine snakes around the forecourt. Spring and late September are kinder: mild weather, grapes arriving in crates, cellars busy but not frantic. Sunday visits require planning—many bodegas lock up and the lone café on Plaça de l'Església closes at four. Bring snacks or risk hanger-induced arguments among travelling companions.

Getting there, getting round, getting home

By public transport: Regional train R4 from Barcelona-Sants, 38 min to Sant Sadurní, hourly service, €4.60 each way. The station sits five minutes' walk from Codorníu and ten from most smaller houses.

By car: AP-7 toll motorway southbound, exit 28, then 15 min on C-243. Parking is free but tight on market days (Tuesday and Friday).

Taxis: Only two cabs serve the whole town after 8 p.m.; save the driver's mobile number or prepare for a long stroll to your hotel.

Designated driver: Catalan police set up random breath-testing points on the N-340 during harvest. Spitting is acceptable in cellars; swallowing six samples is not.

Accommodation: Stay in Sitges for sea views and nightlife, or Vilafranca for country quiet plus medieval centre. Sant Sadurní itself has one serviceable three-star hotel and a handful of B&Bs above bakeries that start pumping out steam at dawn—ask for a back room if you value silence.

The honest truth? Cava country won't bowl you over with hilltop castles or cobbled fairy-tale streets. The charm is more understated: the quiet pop of a cork in a cellar, a baker who explains the difference between brut and sec while bagging your croissant, trains that run on time and beaches within reach. Book a couple of cellars, pack your swim things and you've stitched together a long weekend that mixes vineyard education with Mediterranean vitamin D—something Champagne, for all its grandeur, has never quite managed.