Bescanó

The 08:05 school run is the loudest moment of the day. Engines idle outside the Institut de Bescanó while teenagers in football jerseys drift through the gates, and the bakery on Carrer Major sells its last bikinis—pressed ham-and-cheese sandwiches that cost €2.40 and taste better than they deserve to. By half past nine the village has exhaled again. The only traffic is a single tractor hauling pallets of lettuces to the mercadona in Girona, twelve kilometres east.

Bescanó sits at 100 m above sea level on a plateau of wheat and sun-browned stubble fields. It is not dramatic. There is no cliff-top hermitage, no wine route, no medieval festival with falconers. What it does have is a functioning Catalan poble where 5 178 people still buy their meat from a counter scaled with stainless-steel hooks, and where the Saturday market occupies three sides of the plaça before everyone drifts home for lunch at two.

The Parish and the Periphery

Sant Martí church keeps the time; its bell tolls the quarters even when no one is listening. The building is a patchwork—Romanesque base, Baroque façade, twentieth-century roof paid for by subscription after the Civil War. Step inside and the air smells of candle wax and the stone detergent used by the same confraria that has cleaned the floor every Friday since 1978. No one will mind if you sit for five minutes, but don’t expect explanatory panels. Information is still passed mouth to mouth, preferably in Catalan.

Behind the church the old centre compresses into lanes wide enough for a donkey but not a Fiesta. Iron balconies carry geraniums in Fanta bottles; at noon the shadows align so perfectly that photographers block the alley for thirty seconds, then move on. The whole quarter can be walked in fifteen minutes, which is either disappointing or refreshing, depending on how many pueblos you have already traipsed round with an audio guide pressed to your ear.

Tracks, Torrents and the Truth About Flat

Bescanó’s marketing trick is to promise “soft hiking”. The claim is accurate. A lattice of caminos rurales—gravel lanes maintained by the county—radiates towards scattered farmhouses called masías. Most paths rise no more than thirty metres; stout trainers suffice, and a toddler can master the river loop. Start at the football ground where the torrent de Montfullà meets the Ter, follow the plane trees downstream for 3 km, then cut back across the wheat. You will meet dogs, cyclists and an elderly man who greets every walker with the same phrase: “Bon camí, no feu soroll, les guatleres canten.” The warblers, not you, should provide the soundtrack.

Road cyclists like the secondary road to Sant Julià de Ramis: smooth asphalt, negligible traffic before ten, and a café that opens at seven for café amb llet strong enough to restart a heart. Girona’s professional training routes lie further north; here it’s retirees on e-bikes and British families who’ve twigged that the altitude gain is less than Richmond Park.

Eating Without the Theatre

There is no Michelin plot twist. The daily menu at Can Cervera on Plaça de l’Església costs €14 and runs to three courses plus half a bottle of house wine. Expect grilled chicken, chips and a crème-caramel that wobbles like a guilty secret. Vegetarians get escalivada (roasted aubergine and pepper) and a lecture on the price of tofu. The bread arrives in a plastic basket stamped with the name of a Girona wholesaler; it is forgettable, but no one cares because the alioli is properly fierce.

If you self-cater, the Saturday market yields tomatoes that still smell of leaf, and botifarra sausages the width of a child’s wrist. Bring euros: the nearest ATM hides inside the BonPreu supermarket on the bypass, and the old-town shops shut from 13:30 to 16:30 sharp. Miss the window and you’ll be queuing at the petrol-station vending machine for €3 crisps.

Fiestas, Fire and Human Towers

Mid-August is Festa Major. The village doubles its population for three days. Brass bands play until two; teenagers drink cubatas on the church steps; and at eleven on Sunday the colles castelleres build a five-tier human tower that sways but stays. British visitors often stumble on the event by accident, lured by the thud of drums. Bring earplugs and a tolerant attitude towards fireworks thrown within arm’s reach. Accommodation is impossible unless you booked in March; day-trip instead and escape before the correfoc devils light their sparklers.

January brings Sant Antoni. Locals barbecue onions the size of cricket balls and bless dogs, hamsters and the occasional bewildered alpaca outside the town hall. It’s freezing by Catalan standards—5 °C at dusk—so mulled wine is sold from cauldrons. The scene is photogenic, but don’t expect explanatory English; the priest’s sermon remains resolutely Catalan.

Getting Stuck, or Why a Car Matters

Bescanó is served by a Rydebus coach that meanders to Girona in twenty-five minutes, but the last return leaves the city at 21:10. Miss it and a taxi costs €28. Trains do not stop here. The road is the C-66, single-carriageway and lethal on foggy winter mornings when commuters tailgate at 100 km/h. In July the same tarmac melts; cyclists return the colour of terracotta. Hire wheels or stay home.

Parking is free and plentiful except during fiestas, when every verge becomes a Fiat 500 sandwich. The riverside path has no toilets—plan ahead at the ajuntament porch, weekdays only.

When to Bail Out

Come in late April if you want green wheat and almond blossom. October delivers the same light without school holidays. Mid-July is torrid; the thermometer kisses 36 °C and the river shrinks to a trickle of laundry foam. November means mud and the smell of slurry as farmers plough in maize stalks. December fog cancels the mountain view entirely; the village feels like a cancelled rehearsal.

Rain matters less than wind. A tramontana gale whistles down from the Pyrenees, flattens umbrellas and shutters the café terraces. On those days even the bakery shuts early; locals retreat indoors to argue about the price of llentilles. Tourists discover that the only indoor refuge is the library, open 16:00-19:00 and decorated with felt elephants made by six-year-olds.

The Honest Verdict

Bescanó will never replace Cadaqués on a postcard. It is a place to sleep cheaply, cycle gently and observe Catalonia without the theme-park overlay. Treat it as a base: Girona’s museums lie fifteen minutes away by car, the Costa Brava forty-five, the high Pyrenees ninety. Return at dusk when the church bell strikes eight and the swifts reel overhead. Buy a €1.20 coca de recapte slice from Forn de Pa Paquita, sit on the plaça steps, and admit that sometimes the quiet bits are the ones you remember once the crowds have gone.