Caldes d'Estrac

The 09:14 R1 train from Barcelona pushes through a tunnel of pines and suddenly the sea appears, cobalt and flat, framed by railway sleepers. Three minutes later the doors open at Caldes d’Estrac and the carriage empties – not of tourists clutching guidebooks, but of Catalans carrying tote bags and fold-up bicycles. They’ve come for the same reason the Romans did: hot water that smells faintly of boiled eggs and a coastline that hasn’t surrendered to high-rise concrete.

A Spa Town That Forgot to Modernise

Caldetes, as locals abbreviate it, sits 36 km up the coast from Barcelona, pressed between the N-II road and the Mediterranean. At barely 33 m above sea level, the air stays soft even when the capital is sweating under a summer plume. The thermal spring – 38 °C, rich in sulphur and calcium – still bubbles up behind the early-20th-century bathhouse on Carrer d’Isaac Albéniz. You can’t swim there any more; the ornate brick building is now private flats. Instead, modern spa rooms are hidden inside a 1970s medical centre a block back from the beach. A 45-minute circuit costs €28 and leaves you smelling like a struck match, but the locals insist it sorts arthritic knees and post-half-marathon hips.

The legacy of the spa era is visible in the architecture. Walk north along Avinguda de la Platja and the villas grow bolder: turrets, stained-glass galleries, ironwork balconies painted the colour of pistachio ice cream. These were summer houses for Barcelona textile barons who arrived with steamer trunks and stayed for August. One, the Casa Patxot, is now the Fundació Palau art museum (€7, free first Sunday). Inside is a tidy collection of Picasso ceramics and manuscripts by the Catalan poet Josep Palau i Fabre. The gardens overlook the railway and, beyond it, the sea; on weekdays you’ll share the terrace with maybe two other people and a ginger cat.

Beaches for People Who Dislike Crowds

Caldetes strings three coves together. The central Platja de l’Estació is the widest, a 450 m strip of honey-coloured sand darkened by grains of igneous rock from the nearby Montnegre massif. The grain size is reassuringly adult – no powder-cloud nonsense that sticks to sun-creamed shins – but bring swim shoes; occasional pebbles lurk at the shoreline. A beach umbrella rents for €5 a day, yet most visitors simply angle their towels under the low pines that overhang the promenade.

Five minutes east, the crescent of Platja del Canadell shelves gently and fills up last. Weekend July crowds are modest compared with neighbouring Malgrat de Mar; by 18:00 it empties again as grandparents shuffle home for supper. The water stays clear enough to spot bottom-dwelling mullet, and the only soundtrack is the click-clack of the Rodalies train every half-hour.

Walk the cliff-top path towards Sant Pol and you’ll reach Platja de les Roques, a pocket of sand the size of a tennis court backed by schist outcrops. At high tide the waves slap the rocks and spray salt on your paperback – satisfyingly dramatic, but check the timetable: the path is cut off at spring tide.

Eating by the Clock

Lunch starts late and finishes earlier than newcomers expect. Kitchens close at 15:30 sharp; if you arrive at 15:35 you’ll be offered coffee and crisps until eight. Book ahead on Saturdays, especially at Can Suñé, a tiled bodega three streets inland where the house speciality is arroz caldoso – soupy rice stocked with a whole lobster split lengthways. It’s easier on British palates than a dry paella, and the waiter will bring a spoon without being asked. A portion for two costs €38 and feeds three if you order extra bread.

For something quicker, La Tasqueta on the promenade does a respectable bomba – a tennis-ball of potato and spicy beef that tastes like a croquette with attitude. Vegetarians head to El Taller, where the roasted-veg coca (Catalan pizza) comes cut into manageable rectangles, no soggy centre. House white from the Alella DO is crisp, local and, at €14 a bottle, cheaper than London tap water.

Evening eating is quieter. A handful of bars stay open past ten, but this is not Sitges: the last train to Barcelona leaves at 23:30, thinning out potential revellers. If you miss it, a taxi back to Plaça de Catalunya costs around €90, so most visitors synchronise watches and slope off early.

Walking Off the Rice

The thermal spring may be confined to pipes, but the hills behind the village are still public. Pick up the English “Ruta Modernista” leaflet from the tiny tourist office (open 10:00–13:00, closed Sunday) and you have a 90-minute loop past the best villas without the boring bits. For longer lungs, the Camí Vell de Sant Pol is signposted from the eastern end of the promenade. The stone track climbs gently through umbrella pines, then contours 3 km to Sant Pol de Mar with the sea always on your right. Allow an hour each way, more if you stop to photograph the art-nouveau cemetery gates.

Mountain walkers can aim higher. The Montnegre massif rises to 760 m within 8 km of the station. A twice-daily bus drops you at Vallgorguina; from there a web of signed paths leads through holm-oak forest to dolmens and viewpoints that take in the Pyrenees on clear days. In summer start early: shade is scarce and the humidity can feel subtropical by eleven.

When to Come, When to Skip

May and late-September give you 23 °C days and hotel doubles for €80. June adds roses spilling over villa walls, but also the first coach parties who nip up from Barcelona for a “cultural beach” day. July and August are hot (30 °C) and the town’s population triples with second-home owners from Gràcia. Even then the beach never reaches towel-to-towel gridlock, but restaurant queues stretch to 25 minutes and the thermal spa is booked solid at weekends.

Winter is mild – 14 °C at midday – and the sea stays swimmable for hardy Britons who packed their wetsuit. Several pensions close January–February, yet the train still runs and hotel prices halve. The upside: you’ll have the modernista walk to yourself and the sulphur smell seems stronger in the damp air, a reminder that the earth here is busy beneath your feet.

The Catch

Nothing is perfect. The N-II road slices between town and beach; traffic noise drifts over the sand until late evening. The railway is equally intrusive – charming when it rumbles past every thirty minutes, less so at 06:12. If you demand Caribbean sand or Ibiza nightlife, continue up the line to Calella. But for a low-maintenance add-on to a Barcelona city break – 38 minutes by train, €4.55 each way – Caldes d’Estrac offers a slice of Catalan coastal life that hasn’t been repackaged for export. Bring a paperback, an appetite for rice soup and realistic expectations: the water smells of eggs, the night ends early, and that is precisely why Barcelonians still come.