Ultramort

A Name That Stops You in Your Tracks

The road sign appears suddenly on the C-66: Ultramort. Even classical scholars do a double-take. Latin for "beyond death", the name has been frightening off invaders and, more recently, coach parties for centuries. Yet what lies beyond the sign is less theatrical: a scatter of stone houses, a 13th-century church bell-cote, and wheat fields that run to the horizon like a beige corduroy. No gates of hell, just gates to wheat.

Twenty-nine metres above sea level and forty minutes south-west of Girona, the village sits on a low ridge between the Ter and Daró rivers. The Mediterranean is only fourteen kilometres away as the crow flies, but the salt wind never quite makes it this far; instead the air smells of dry earth and bruised apple blossoms. It is the Baix Empordà’s interior pocket, an area that tourism brochures politely ignore in favour of Cadaqués and Pals.

Two Streets and a Church with No Queue

The entire historic core measures four hundred metres end to end. Carrer Major rises gently from the war memorial to the church of Sant Feliu, whose single nave still bears medieval loopholes—arrow slits, not tax loopholes. Inside, the altarpiece is plain pine, the stone font is older than the House of Windsor, and the only sound is the buzz of a fridge keeping communion wine cool. Entry is free; opening hours are “when the neighbour remembers to unlock it”. That tends to be 10-12 and 5-7, but do not bet your onward taxi on it.

Stone houses lean inwards as if sharing gossip. Timber doors are painted the muted greens and ox-blood reds you see on railway bridges in Wales. There is no souvenir shop, no interpretive centre, no artisan ice-cream. The solitary public noticeboard advertises a mushroom-foraging walk in Catalan and a missing ginger cat called Pudding. Even the cat looks apologetic about the lack of drama.

Cycling Through the Mosaic

Flat country lanes radiate like bicycle spokes. Traffic volume is so low that locals wave at every vehicle, partly to stay awake. A 22-kilometre loop north-east to La Tallada d’Empordà and back passes rice paddies that mirror the sky, pollarded plane trees, and the occasional medieval dovecote converted into a weekend retreat. Road surfaces are smooth asphalt, though tractors leave slicks of mud after rain; hire hybrids rather than skinny racing tyres. Bring water—there is nowhere to refill in the village itself.

If you prefer walking, the Camí de la Serra follows the ridge southwards for three kilometres to the hamlet of Sobrestany, where Can Xanxa opens at lunchtime only. The menu is roast chicken, chips and a carafe of house white for €14. Portions are freighted with calorific intent; you will not need supper. The return path cuts through apple orchards belonging to the Sidra酒厂 of Palau-sator. In late October the ground is carpeted with fruit that has fermented slightly in the sun—walking smells like inhaling a dry cider spritzer.

Where to Lay Your Head and Stock Your Larder

There are no hotels. Accommodation is self-catering farmhouses (masias) converted for the weekending Barcelonans who arrive with cool-bags and Spotify playlists. Expect stone walls thick enough to mute a brass band, infinity pools that look onto sunflower fields, and prices that drop by half outside July–August. Mas Rossell, two kilometres west of the church, sleeps six from €180 per night in May; in October the same house is €110 and the owners throw in a bottle of their own olive oil.

Food shopping requires a short drive. La Bisbal d’Empordà (five kilometres) has a compact Mercadona and a Friday market that occupies Plaça del Castell from 08:00 until sell-out. British visitors gravitate towards the formatges de cabra stall for something that tastes like a zingy Cheshire, and the pottery stalls—La Bisbal ceramics are inexpensive, dishwasher-safe and easier to pack than a leg of jamón. If you forget coffee, the village bar will sell you an industrial tin for cash; the owner keeps stock under the counter next to the replacement fuses and feels oddly proud of this arrangement.

Mosquitoes, Midnight and Other Honest Notes

Summer evenings are operatic with mosquitoes. The Ter river wetlands breed them by the squadron, and they are partial to British ankles. Plug-in repellents work; so does long clothing, though that collides with the holiday shorts policy. Street-lighting is deliberately low-watt to protect night fauna—romantic until you trip off the single kerb. Bring a torch or use your phone; the stones are unforgiving and the pharmacy is in the next town.

Restaurant hours end abruptly at 22:00, even in peak season. Arrive at 21:45 and staff will already be stacking chairs while insisting “Entra, entra” through gritted teeth. Book ahead if you want the full three-course Catalan treatment; otherwise plan simple suppers back at the farmhouse. Kitchens are invariably equipped with paella pans the size of satellite dishes and blunt knives—pack a small sharp one if you care about chopping onions faster than a tractor moves.

When to Come and When to Leave

April and May turn the surrounding fields an almost indecent green; poppies punctuate the wheat like exclamation marks. Temperatures hover around 21 °C, ideal for cycling without arriving drenched. September repeats the trick, adding grape-harvest scents and lowering accommodation prices by thirty percent. August is hotter (32 °C) and the Barcelonans occupy every rental, but even then you can stand in the middle of the lane and hear only a distant combine harvester.

Allow one daylight hour to see the village itself. The value of Ultramort is its silence, and silence is best appreciated between excursions rather than purchased as a destination in itself. Use it as a base for the medieval towns of Pals and Peratallada, the beaches of Pals and L’Estartit (fifteen minutes by car), or the Dalí triangle if you fancy a surrealist jolt after all that agrarian calm.

Drive back to Girona airport along the C-66 at dawn and the village name recedes in the mirror. Ultramort sounds final, yet the place is less about ending than about pause: a comma in the long sentence of the Empordà plain, a chance to breathe out before the next clause of your trip.