Pals

The stone archways of Carrer del Pou are worn smooth on the left side. Not by design, but because five centuries of right-handed people have braced themselves climbing the 15-percent gradient toward the Torre de les Hores. That small detail tells you everything about Pals: this is a place shaped by everyday use, not museum ropes.

The Town That Lives Above Its Means

Pals sits 55 metres above the plain, close enough to the Costa Brava to smell salt on a strong tramontana wind yet far enough inland to keep its medieval bones intact. From the Josep Pla lookout—named for the essayist who charted these fields in tobacco-brown prose—the view rolls south across a patchwork of rice paddies that shift from electric green in May to burnt umber by late September. On clear winter mornings you can pick out the Pyrenees and, closer in, the toothy profile of the Illes Medes rising from the Mediterranean.

The old centre, known as the Pedró, is pedestrian-only. Cars must stay in the free car park at the bottom of the hill; anyone with dodgy knees should budget extra time and maybe walking poles—the cobbles are polished to marble slickness by rain and coach-party shuffling. Coaches arrive around 10:30 and leave by 16:00; outside those brackets the lanes return to residents, delivery vans and the occasional cyclist pushing uphill.

Start at the Torre de les Horas, a 15-metre watchtower whose bell once warned of Saracen fleets. Entry is €3, coins only; the ticket machine stubbornly refuses contactless. Two spiral staircases deliver you to a parapet where the plain spreads out like a 3-D map: rice, pine, sea. The Gothic arch of Portal de la Vila frames the climb, its keystone carved with a scallop shell—medieval marketing for pilgrims heading to Santiago.

From here lanes fan out in no particular order. Carrer de la Cort passes the Romanesque church of Sant Pere, its tenth-century bell tower patched with Gothic after an earthquake in 1427. Stone balconies sag under geraniums; ground-floor doorways reveal tiny shops selling saffron tins and ceramic rice spoons. Nothing is staged, yet the scene is almost too tidy, as if someone has hovered with a feather duster. The illusion lasts until you spot a wheelie bin wedged beneath a 14th-century cornice—Pals still does ordinary life.

Rice, Sea and the Space Between

Six kilometres away, Platja de Pals stretches for 3.5 km of fine, honey-coloured sand. The beach is municipal but feels wild: dunes topped with marram grass, pine woods backing the littoral, and enough afternoon wind to keep kite-surfers happy while preventing the air from stagnating in thirty-degree heat. Mid-July the car park fills by 11:00; arrive earlier or come for the last two hours of daylight when Spanish families pack up and the sand turns cinematic.

The rice connection is impossible to ignore. Pals gives its name to one of only two Catalan rices with Denominació d’Origen, and the crop dictates the seasonal rhythm. In April the fields are flooded, reflecting clouds like sheet glass. By June stalks brush your shins as you cycle the flat paddy loop that starts behind the football pitch. September brings harvesters and the smell of toasted grain. Winter sees the earth rest, turned to rust and ochre, stubble burning in controlled squares.

Stop at Grava, a bike-café housed in an old rice warehouse. They’ll pump your tyres for free and serve a pizza topped with botifarra and local thyme that tastes surprisingly like Cumberland sausage. The owner, Pere, keeps a map marked with farm tracks where you can spot marsh harriers and, if you’re lucky, a hoopoe strutting like a punk chicken.

What to Eat Without the Hard Sell

British palates tend to relax when they discover arroz de Pals is essentially paella’s milder cousin: shorter grains, less aggressive saffron, and stock that lingers on the tongue rather than punching it. Can Blanch’s version with cuttlefish and peas costs €16 and feeds two if you add bread. Order pa amb tomàquet first—grilled country loaf rubbed with tomato, olive oil and a whisper of salt. It’s Catalan garlic bread, and even fussy children wolf it down.

Wine lists lean on Empordà reds: sturdy, sun-baked Garnacha and Carignan blends that stand up to roast-dinner flavours. A glass of La Bruixa de Mar pairs better with rice than sangria ever managed. Finish with thyme ice-cream at Can Malirach; the herbal note sounds odd until you remember rosemary shortbread back home.

Vegetarians do better here than on most costas. Rice with wild mushrooms appears from October to March, and the local market sells xuixo pastries filled with crema catalana that have no animal fat—dangerously moreish with morning coffee.

When the Crowds Thin Out

August is a carnival of flip-flops and selfie sticks; if that’s your only window, treat Pals as an early-morning exercise. Arrive before nine, climb the walls while the stone is still cool, then escape to the beach before the coach parties storm the gift shops. May and late-September give you warm evenings, empty lanes and hotel rates that drop by a third. Winter is properly quiet—some restaurants close Monday to Wednesday—but the light turns butter-yellow and you can park wherever you like.

Rain deserves respect. A five-minute July cloudburst turns cobbles into an ice-rink; carry shoes with grip or embrace the skate. The rice fields flood deliberately, but the dirt tracks that thread them become glutinous—mountain-bike tyres recommended over city hybrids.

Getting Here, Getting Out

No train reaches Pals. From Barcelona’s Estació del Nord the Sarfa bus takes 2 h 30 min and deposits you at the edge of the old road; from Girona it’s 50 min on the same line. Both services run twice daily except Sunday, when the afternoon bus disappears entirely. Hiring a car at Girona airport gives more flexibility: the GI-648 threads past sunflower fields and medieval villages, each worth a stop if you can resist the lure of the beach.

Stay in the old town if you want stone walls outside your window; the Hotel Mas Salvi, a converted 17th-century manor five minutes’ drive away, offers a pool and parking but loses the lane-at-midnight atmosphere. Budget travellers find clean doubles at Hostal Cel from €65, including coffee and a view across ripening rice.

Leave time for the neighbours. Peratallada, six kilometres west, has a moat carved from solid rock; bicycle takes twenty minutes on the flat. Monells, with its arcaded square used in Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, is a gentle pedal further. Begur sits on its own hill, all faded-indigo mansions built by 19th-century Cuban returnees.

Pals won’t hand you epiphanies. It offers something quieter: the chance to walk on stones that remember every sandal, boot and trainer since 1460, then descend to eat rice grown within sight of your table. Come for that continuity, not for fireworks. And remember to keep left on the slippery bits—five hundred years of right-handers can’t be wrong.