Palamós

The loudspeaker crackles at 16:55 and the warehouse doors roll back. Instead of club beats, you hear the rapid-fire Catalan of the port auctioneer and the slap of red prawns hitting stainless-steel trays. This is Palamós, where the daily fish market matters more than the nightly happy hour.

Harbour First, Sand Second

Most Costa-Brava stops front-load the beach and treat the port as afterthought. Here the hierarchy is reversed. The harbour, scooped out in the 13th century by the same counts who built Girona’s cathedral, still handles thirty tonnes of catch on a busy dawn. Trawlers painted the colour of oxidised wine tie up alongside leisure yachts that have sailed down from Southampton or Lymington, and nobody questions which vessel has seniority.

That working pulse keeps the town honest. Apartment blocks exist, but they stop at six floors and are set back from the water, leaving the wharfs free for nets, cranes and the smell of diesel mixed with salt. If you want infinity pools and wrist-band brunches, head forty minutes north to Roses. Palamós trades on ice boxes, not ice sculptures.

The Red Prawn Lottery

Serious food writers cross Europe for gambas de Palamós, the deep-sea prawns fished at 200 m where the seabed drops off the continental shelf. They emerge coral-pink, almost translucent, and are priced like small truffles: expect €70–€90 a kilo at the quay, more in restaurants. The auction begins weekdays at 17:00 in a refrigerated gallery above the dock; visitors watch through glass while multilingual headphones explain the bidding code. Admission is free, numbers are capped at twenty and the queue forms by 16:30. Miss the cut and you’ll shop at retail like everyone else.

British visitors sometimes balk at paying £18 for four grilled prawns, yet the flavour is closer to scampi than anything labelled “prawn” back home. The local method is simplicity itself: rock salt, hot plancha, ninety seconds. Restaurants along the Passeig Marítim will split a half-kilo order between two if you ask; the going rate is €28–€32 for a ración.

Two Beaches, Two Temperaments

Palamós never lets you forget the sea is its employer, but sand is still on the payroll. Platja Gran, the town’s 600-metre sweep, faces south-east and catches the morning sun while the hills of Cap Roig give afternoon shade. It’s family territory: pedalos, paddle-court, lifeguard post with the daily jellyfish flag (green for clear, red for meduses). By 14:00 in August every square metre is colonised; arrive before 10:00 or after 18:00 and you’ll find space without paying the €15 for two loungers.

For something wilder, walk twenty minutes north past the marina to La Fosca, a crescent protected by pine-topped headlands. The water stays shallow for fifty metres, so children splash while open-water swimmers hug the rocks on the far side. There’s no promenade commerce beyond a single kiosk selling cans of Estrella at €2.50; bring shade because pine needles don’t substitute for a parasol.

Keen to earn your swim? Continue on the signed coastal path. Within thirty minutes you reach Cala Estreta, a pocket of coarse sand accessible only on foot or by kayak. Flip-flops won’t cope with the final scramble; wear trainers and carry water because no one sells it.

Medieval Stones, Fishermen’s Stories

The old quarter climbs inland from the port for roughly four uphill blocks—small enough to canvas in half an hour, interesting enough to last an afternoon. Carrer Major still follows the 14th-century wall line; look for the stone blocks recycled into later houses, each one carved with the mason’s mark that doubled as medieval invoice. The bell tower of Església de Santa Maria leans two degrees east, a legacy of subsidence rather than design, yet services continue every Sunday at 11:00 and visitors are welcome if shoulders are covered.

Round the corner, the Museu de la Pesca occupies a 1940s ice factory. Exhibits are labelled in English and the audio guide is voiced by a Grimsby-born actor whose vowels make curious company with the Catalan visuals. You’ll learn why red prawns blush only after death and how a trawl net can scoop 4,000 fish in six minutes. Admission €7; under-14s free. Allow fifty minutes, more if you’re the sort who reads every caption.

When to Drop Anchor

Palamós is a year-round town, but seasons dictate mood. May–June delivers 23 °C afternoons and hotel rooms at €90 instead of August’s €180. Sea temperatures lag behind the air; locals call anything under 20 °C “English water” and dive in regardless. September is the sweet spot for swimmers: the Mediterranean peaks at 24 °C and the gambas are fat after a summer’s feed.

Winter is quiet, occasionally wild. Tramontana winds can gust to 80 km/h; restaurants cut hours and some close completely in January. Yet the sun still shines 300 days a year, and hoteliers will upgrade you for free just to keep the corridors breathing. Pack a fleece; night-time mercury can dip to 5 °C, hilarious for a place thirty minutes from ski-station-less Girona.

Eating Without the Mark-Up

Beyond the prawns, the harbour-front pescateries sell whatever came in that morning. Hake, sardines and the local róbalo (sea-bass) sit on crushed ice until 13:00. If your accommodation has a hob, buy early; the fish won’t see a second day. Wednesday’s market in Plaça dels Arbres undercuts the supermarkets for vegetables—handy if self-catering and you need aubergines for * escalivada*.

When you’d rather be served, slip one block inland where menus drop by 30 %. Can Blau on Carrer Virgen de Montserrat does a three-course menú del día for €17; the suquet arrives in a clay pot with half a potato and three mussels, enough for lunch if you mop the broth with bread. They pour a decent Priorat by the glass for €3.50—cheaper than London’s pub wine and twice as potent.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Girona-Costa Brava airport sits 35 km away—thirty minutes on the AP-7 toll road (€6.15) or forty-five on the free C-66. Car hire is useful for cala-hopping but not essential; hourly buses connect the airport to Girona city where SARFA coaches run six times daily to Palamós (€7.20, 55 min). A taxi from the airport costs a flat €80; Uber barely exists here.

Once in town, everything is walkable. Parking meters operate 10:00–14:00 and 16:00–20:00; Brits unused to paying to leave a car by the sea grumble, yet €1.80 buys two hours and spaces empty after 20:00. Blue-zone rules are suspended in December and January—village logic says even traffic wardens deserve a Christmas break.

The Exit Strategy

Palamós won’t hand you dolphin cruises, foam parties or karaoke bars. It offers instead the small thrill of watching an economy that still makes things—ice, nets, fish soup—rather than merely consuming them. Stay three nights and you’ll recognise the auctioneer’s cadence, know which café leaves the Herald Tribune on the counter, and learn that the best time for a swim is when the church bell hits seven and the day-trippers are heading home. Just remember to check the jellyfish flag before you dive in.