Rupià

The church bell strikes noon and only two things move in Rupià: a tabby cat crossing the stone archway into Carrer Major, and a farmer unloading crates of aubergines into a hatchback. With 316 residents and no souvenir shops, this Baix Empordà hamlet measures its daily visitor count on one hand. Most travellers hurtle past on the C-66, bound for the Costa Brava twenty minutes away, unaware that a complete medieval enclosure—walls, towers, gateway, even the old moat—survives intact just beyond the turn-off to Foixà.

British drivers who do swing right are rewarded with something increasingly rare on the Spanish circuit: a village that still functions for locals first, cameras second. Park where the lane narrows (there are no yellow lines, only common sense) and the only sound is your own footsteps ricocheting off golden stone that has baked under the same sun since the 14th century. The entire historic core can be circled in fifteen minutes, but give it an hour—shadows shift quickly in these alleyways, and every medieval doorway frames a different slice of Empordà countryside.

Stone, Straw and the Smell of New Bread

Rupià’s castle is privately owned, so you’ll have to settle for admiring its circular keep from the lane that once carried supply carts. The parapet walk still exists; you’re standing on it when you trace the outer wall past the old bread oven and the iron-studded portal of Cal Metre. Keep an eye out for the twin dovecotes carved into the battlements—pigeon squab was medieval fast food, and the holes provided fresh eggs for the garrison.

The parish church of Sant Martí won’t swallow a crowd either. Romanesque at its core, later naves added whenever the harvest was good, it smells faintly of candle wax and the broom plant stacked by the altar each September. Step inside at 6 pm on a weekday and you’ll catch the end of the daily prayers, half-sung in Catalan by five elderly women who know exactly which neighbour has failed to water their geraniums. Photography is allowed; flash is not—partly out of reverence, partly because the 12th-century paint fragments dislike sudden light.

Outside, the plaça is barely wider than a tennis court. Wednesday is market day, which means one trestle table selling lettuces and a van dispensing bottled gas. The solitary café, Can Xic, opens at seven for farmers’ espresso and doesn’t close until the last domino falls. Their three-course menú del dia costs €14 and runs to grilled chicken with proper alioli—garlicky enough to keep vampires away, mild enough for younger palates. Order the local coca for pudding: a rectangular slab of crisp bread painted with candied aubergine that tastes better than it sounds. Vegetarians should ask for the seasonal roast-pepper version; the kitchen is used to adapting because, as the owner shrugs, “we only get six tables anyway.”

Walking Off the Rice

If you arrive with a full hire-car boot, empty it of trainers. Rupià sits at 66 m above sea level, low enough for olive groves yet high enough to catch a breeze that smells of rosemary and distant salt. A web of farm tracks links the village to neighbours Parlavà and Ullastret—each stroll under an hour, flat enough for flip-flop refugees from the beach. Spring brings poppies between the wheat; autumn smells of newly pressed olive oil from the co-operative press in nearby Verges. Either season beats August, when even here the thermometer nudges 34 °C and the only shade is a 600-year-old wall that radiates heat like a storage heater.

Cyclists appreciate the same lanes: tarmac smooth enough for skinny tyres, traffic thin enough to hear your own breathing. Head east and you’ll reach the Iberian ruins at Ullastret in 25 minutes—Catalonia’s largest pre-Roman settlement, complete with walls, grain silos and panoramic views across the marshy plain that once lapped against Greek trading boats. A combined ticket with the small museum in the village costs €5.50; English labels are patchy, but the site’s audio guide can be downloaded free and chews through less data than Spotify.

When the Sun Drops, the Village Belongs to You Again

Evenings invert the daytime routine. British visitors usually base themselves on the coast, so by six the car park empties and Rupià reverts to its 316 inhabitants plus whoever is staying in the three rental houses inside the walls. Swallows replace swifts, the church bell counts down to supper, and the bar owner wheels out a single wicker table for the vetlladors, the dusk gossip club. You are welcome to join; a canya (small beer) costs €1.80 and the conversation will switch to Spanish the moment your Catalan runs out—no one’s offended, they’re just relieved to practise the language they learned watching Los Serranos on TVE.

Overnight options within the walls are limited: one medieval townhouse sleeping six, one converted barn for two. Both have stone staircases so worn they slope like old cutting boards—pack light, wheelie cases are hopeless. Larger groups find better value in country masías ten minutes away, where pools and olive groves compensate for the short drive back to the village bakery each morning. Expect to pay £90–£120 a night for a two-bedroom cottage in May or October, double in July–August.

What the Guidebooks Don’t Say

Rupià has no cashpoint; the nearest ATM is six kilometres away in Foixà and it occasionally runs out of €20 notes on Sunday evenings. The village shop sells tinned tuna, local wine and not much else—stock up in La Bisbal before you arrive. Mobile coverage is patchy inside the walls, which is either a curse or a blessing depending on your travelling companion. And if you plug “Rupia” into the sat-nav, you may end up in Rupit, 90 km inland—add “Baix Empordà” to the search or you’ll lose an afternoon reversing out of Pyrenean switchbacks.

Come late August and the Festa Major turns the plaça into a dance floor. A hired sound system pumps out Catalan rock until 3 am; locals insist the decibel count is “traditional.” Bring earplugs or join in—either way, you’ll be offered cava at 1 am by someone’s aunt who learnt English picking strawberries in Kent. The morning after, the only hangover remedy is strong coffee and the smell of tractor diesel as the harvest resumes. By noon silence returns, the cat resumes its archway patrol, and Rupià slips back into its usual rhythm—one that measured centuries long before cheap flights reached Girona, and will probably tick on after we’ve all switched to rail.