Fontanilles

The only sound at 7 a.m. is the clank of a distant tractor and a pair of swifts racing the church tower of Sant Esteve. Fontanilles never promised nightlife; it promises decibels so low you can hear your own pulse. With 160-odd residents scattered among farm lanes, this is the Baix Empordà’s shrug at the Costa Brava’s summer drumbeat—close enough to taste salt on the breeze, far enough to forget traffic exists.

A Grid of Lanes, Not a Maze of Alleys

Forget hill-top ramparts and flowery plazas. Fontanilles sits at a modest 29 m above sea-level, its houses strung along rural tracks that unravel into wheat, vines and regimented lines of kiwi fruit. The church, enlarged chunk by chunk since the 1700s, anchors a hamlet that measures barely three streets. There is no café, no bakery, no souvenir shop—just stone façades the colour of burnt cream and a noticeboard announcing next week’s compost-collection rota.

That absence of commerce is precisely why repeat visitors from Surrey and South Wales time-share the handful of renovated farmsteads. Thick stone walls keep bedrooms at 22 °C even when the Girona thermometer nudges 36 °C, and most rentals come with a pool just big enough to float in with a gin-tonic while the sun drops behind the Gavarres hills.

Working Fields, Not a Working Bar

The surrounding land is still farmed hard. Tractors the width of a Sussex lane crawl across cereal plots from dawn, and during harvest the air smells of straw heated by diesel—an aroma British walkers often recall from childhood rides on grandad’s combine. Public footpaths, way-marked with white-and-yellow stripes, let you wander without trespassing; follow GR-92 for 40 minutes south and you’ll reach Parlavà, where a tiny grocery opens mornings and sells tomatoes that actually taste of tomato.

Cyclists swear by these lanes. Loop east through Palau-sator, Verges and Torroella: 28 km, dead-flat, traffic limited to the occasional van hauling beehives. Road surfaces are smoother than most Surrey back-routes; hire bikes in Torroella for €18 a day and the shop will deliver to your cottage gate.

Where the Sea Sneaks In

The coast is 12 km away as the stork flies, 20 minutes by car on the C-31. That proximity matters. On humid August evenings the tramuntana wind drags wood-smoke from farmhouse chimneys and mixes it with a salt tang you normally only notice on beach towels. Drive to L’Estartit for the nearest sand; the first two car parks charge €2.50 an hour but the third, behind the football pitch, is free and two minutes longer on foot. The sea shelves gently—perfect for children who’ve spent the morning learning dragonfly names back in the wheat fields.

Come October the same drive takes you past rice paddies outside Pals. Mosquitoes prosper here; at dusk they’ll hunt bare ankles with military dedication. Pack repellent or dine inside: local wisdom claims a shot of rum keeps the bugs confused, but Avon’s Skin-So-Soft still outsells Captain Morgan in the supermarket at Torroella.

Food you can Cook, not Food you can Queue For

Fontanilles itself offers zero restaurants, so self-catering is compulsory rather than trendy. British hosts who rent out here leave a welcome pack: a crusty loaf, a bottle of Vilobí d’Onyar cava (€6 in the shop, half the price of Prosecco in Waitrose) and instructions for pa amb tomàquet—rub toast with ripe tomato, drizzle oil, add salt. From there it’s a short hop to botifarra amb mongetes, a Catalan answer to bangers and mash that needs only one pan and a tin of white beans. If you crave seafood, book in Pals at dusk; the terrace at Mas Pou finishes orders at 21:30 sharp, and the kitchen will not bend even if your hire-car sat-nav sent you via every roundabout in Europe.

When to Arrive, When to Leave

April and May turn the surrounding plateau emerald; by late June the colour drains to gold and the thermometer starts its climb. British school-holiday families arrive in July, but the village never feels busy—just fuller, like a train carriage that’s gone from four passengers to twelve. September drops the temperature to the mid-twenties and replaces tractor dust with the sweet reek of crushed grapes. November can be damp; January is properly cold, stone walls ooze condensation, and many pools are covered until Easter. Unless you fancy solitary walks and log-fire evenings, winter is for writers on retreat rather than families seeking Vitamin D.

Practicalities the Booking Sites Omit

A car is non-negotiable. The nearest supermarket is 7 km away; the bus through Verges runs twice on weekdays and not at all on Sunday. Mobile coverage skips in and out—Vodafone fares better than O2—so download offline maps before leaving the AP-7. Check-in is often “wave at the gate while the owner drives up with keys”; if your Ryanair flight is late, send a WhatsApp voice note, because Spaniards rarely listen to voicemail. Finally, pack a torch: street lighting is thoughtful rather than comprehensive, and after an evening in Palau-sator the walk back to your front door is darker than any British village green.

The Verdict

Fontanilles will not give you bucket-list sights or Instagram explosions. It offers the chance to wake when cockerels say so, cycle empty lanes, read an entire book before lunch, and remember what low-level countryside sounds like when no A-road rumbles in the middle distance. If that feels like holiday enough, come. If you need a bar within stumbling distance, book elsewhere.