Campllong

The morning flight from Manchester lands at Girona at 10:15. By 11:00 you're past the city ring-road, the Costa Brava turn-offs thinning out, and the landscape flattens into a patchwork of cereal fields the colour of pale ale. Ten minutes later a single stone tower appears—Sant Esteve church—and you've arrived in Campllong, a place whose name most Brits mis-pronounce as "Camp-long" until a local corrects it to "Cam-PLY".

This isn't the Catalonia of guidebook covers. No medieval walls, no vine-draped plazas, no panoramic ridge-top views. Campllong sits at 113 m above sea-level on the fertile Gironès plain, 15 km inland from Girona, and its identity is arable rather than ornamental. Wheat, barley and sunflower rotations dictate the calendar; the loudest noise is usually a combine harvester heading out at dawn. Tourists who wander in expecting "charming" are either disappointed or—if they arrived with a set of golf clubs—pleasantly surprised by how little stands between them and the first tee.

Green fees and grain silos

The village's biggest draw is the Camiral Golf & Wellness resort, planted on the western edge of the municipal boundary. Two 18-hole loops—the Stadium course used for the Spanish Open and the gentler Tour course—attract UK golfers looking for sun-baked fairways without the coastal price tags. Mid-week green fees drop to €75 if booked online a fortnight ahead; a spa day-pass is €40 and includes an outdoor pool long enough for serious laps. The clubhouse breakfast buffet is famous among British regulars for bacon that actually crisps; portions are sized for people who intend to walk seven kilometres before lunch.

Staying at the resort means you sleep in Campllong but hardly touch the village itself. The gates close at midnight; beyond them lie scattered farmhouses, narrow farm tracks and the parish church, whose bell still marks the quarters for anyone awake to hear it. It's an odd coexistence: five-star buggies gliding past wheat fields, spa guests jogging while dogs herd geese off the road. The arrangement works because neither side pretends to be something it isn't. Golfers don't expect tapas trails; locals don't expect hen-night bars.

A parish, a bakery, and a timetable that moves with the seasons

Campllong's built centre is essentially one short grid of streets fanning out from Sant Esteque. The church is 11th-century at its core, rebuilt after a fire in the 1930s, plain and barn-like with a single rose window that throws pink light across the nave at sunset. Outside, a stone tablet lists the 28 men conscripted to fight in the Civil War; the surnames are the same ones you'll see on nearby letterboxes.

The only commercial activity is along Carrer Major: a bakery whose roller shutter lifts at 08:00 (or when the owner arrives, whichever is later), a corner shop selling tinned tuna, tractor oil and chilled Estrella, and the Restaurante Local Social. The latter functions as the village canteen: €14 buys three courses, bread and wine. Monday is grilled chicken, chips and salad—safe territory for children who think alioli is a step too far. Booking isn't required but turning up after 14:30 means you'll eat alone while the staff mop around you.

August changes everything. Locals bolt for family villages on the coast or second homes in the Pyrenees; shutters clatter down and even the bakery gives up. British self-caterers who arrive mid-summer without provisions end up driving to Girona for milk. The golf resort stays open, but its restaurants switch to reduced menus and skeleton staff. If you want rural quiet taken to monastic extremes, this is the month. If you want atmosphere, come in spring when tractors stir up dust and the scent of cut barley drifts through open windows.

Tracks for walking, cycling, or getting pleasantly lost

Campllong's topography is gentle enough that you can cover 20 km without noticing. A lattice of rural lanes—wide enough for a combine, just—connects dispersed farmhouses called masías. Many date from the 17th and 18th centuries: stone walls half a metre thick, arched doorways big enough for a cart, terracotta roof tiles wavy as crisps. Most remain working properties; dogs bark, irrigation pivots hiss, someone burns prunings in a ditch. Stick to the track and you'll be fine; stray across newly seeded wheat and you won't need Spanish to understand the farmer's gestures.

Two sign-posted circuits start at the church. The short loop (5 km) skirts sunflower fields and returns via a row of cypresses that look like a burnt matchstick fence. The longer one (12 km) pushes north to the neighbouring hamlet of Sant Joan de Mollet, where a 12th-century pre-Romanesque chapel sits locked except on its feast day, 17 June. Both routes are flat; trainers suffice and there's zero shade—carry water April through October. Mountain bikers use the same lanes; Strava shows segments with grand total of 23 attempts, so don't expect trail traffic.

Road cyclists base themselves here for the same reason golfers do: quiet roads and a hire-car dash from the airport. The plain gives way to rolling hills a few kilometres north; from Campllong you can stitch together a 60 km loop that climbs to the medieval bridge at Banyoles and returns via three café stops, all serving better coffee than anything in the village itself.

Girona on the doorstep, Costa Brava on a day trip

Campllong makes sense as a place to sleep rather than a place to sight-see. Girona's old town is 20 minutes south: Arab baths, Roman walls, restaurants that earn Michelin stars without shouting about it. Park in the underground beneath Plaça de Catalunya (€1.70 per hour) and walk. If you need a beach fix, the sands at Sant Martí d'Empúries are 45 minutes east and rarely packed outside August; stop at L'Escala for anchovy tapas that convert even the most committed anchovy sceptic.

Winter access is straightforward: the AP-7 is kept clear and daytime temperatures hover around 12 °C—soft-shell weather for cyclists training for spring sportives. The resort hotel drops prices by 40 % November to March and keeps the spa pools at 30 °C, handy when the tramontana wind whistles across the plain. Snow is almost unheard of; if it does settle the village treats it as a public holiday and photographs the same three snowmen for WhatsApp groups.

Know before you go

A car is non-negotiable. A single bus leaves for Girona at 07:10 on school days, returning at 14:00; there is no weekend service. Taxis from the airport cost €35 pre-booked; Uber exists but drivers cancel half the time once they realise the destination isn't coastal.

Phone signal is patchy in the lanes—download offline maps. The bakery only takes cash; the golf resort takes cards, euros, and quite a lot of them if you raid the pro-shop. August closures are serious: email restaurants in July to check, or plan to self-cater. Finally, reset your expectations. Campllong won't sweep you off your feet, but it might let you breathe, swing a club, cycle a lane and be in bed before the church bell tolls twelve—sometimes that's exactly what a break is for.