Calella

The 19.30 train from Barcelona Sants empties like a burst piñata. Half the carriage are Brits in Ironman T-shirts, the rest families wheeling empty suitcases that will fly home stuffed with beach towels from the Chinese bazaar on Carrer Església. Fifty minutes earlier they were photographing the Sagrada Família; now they’re queuing for cod and chips at Canapé café while the last fishing boats slip past the nineteenth-century lighthouse. Welcome to Calella, the Costa del Maresme’s pragmatic answer to overpriced Salou.

Sea-first, siesta-second

Calella never promised postcard perfection. What it offers is three kilometres of sand within commuting distance of Barcelona, a compact old quarter you can cross in eight minutes, and hotel rates that drop by a third the moment you cross the N-II road. The place has been a tourist workhorse since 1950s package operators realised the railway already joined it to the airport. The result is a resort that knows exactly what it’s for: sun, beer, and a safe pavement where teenagers can circulate while parents finish the sangría.

Platja Gran, the main beach, is wide enough to absorb August crowds without blanket-to-blanket gridlock. The sand is coarse—more Henley-on-Thames shingle than Caribbean powder—so bring surf shoes for paddle-shy toddlers. Sun-loungers cost €5 a day; a foam mat from the hardware stall costs €8 and works all week. Locals claim the coarse grains don’t blow into your book; they also admit the texture comes from centuries of Pyrenees silt delivered by the Riera de Calella, the seasonal stream that still bisects town.

Walk east and the human tide thins. Platja de les Roques ends in a tumble of pine-topped boulders where the Camí de Ronda picks up. The path to Sant Pol de Mar is 5 km of easy cliff-top strolling, just enough elevation to justify an ice-cream at the far end. Go early; after 11 a.m. the Mediterranean reflects like polished steel and there’s no shade until the bar in Sant Pol.

Old stones between new blocks

Ignore the guidebooks that wail about “concrete jungle.” Yes, the seafront is 1970s apartment stripes, but two streets inland the grid collapses into medieval alleys. Carrer de l’Església narrows until neighbours can shake hands across washing lines; at the end rises the honey-coloured church of Santa Maria i Sant Nicolau. The building is a palimpsest: Romanesque bones, Gothic ribs, Baroque wig. Step inside for five minutes and you’ll catch the smell of candle wax drifting over from a side chapel where an elderly local lights a daily taper for the fishing fleet.

Behind the altar a tiny door leads to the bell tower. The climb is 144 steps, payment in calf muscles. Half-way up, slits in the stone frame a view of the Pyrenees that no postcard bothers to sell. On clear spring mornings you can clock the snowline while still hearing the breakers below—one of those quiet juxtapositions that remind you Catalonia is neither pure beach nor pure mountain but a braid of both.

Back at ground level, the Museu-Arxiu del Turisme occupies a former merchant’s house on Carrer de l’Hospital. One room displays 1920s railway posters promising “sol i salut” (sun and health) to pallid northern lungs; another shows the same beach bulldozed for high-rise foundations in 1968. The exhibition is only three rooms, big enough to digest in twenty minutes, honest enough to admit the town traded sardine curing for sun-lounger rental and never looked back.

Trains, tiles and timetable traps

Calella’s real superpower is the Rodalies rail line. Trains to Barcelona run twice an hour, take 50 minutes, and a return ticket costs €8.60—cheaper than parking at Gatwick for an hour. The last service back leaves Barcelona at 22.30; miss it and a taxi is €70, the same price as a night in a two-star hostal. British visitors who treat the resort like an extension of the Tube learn this the hard way after evening cava sessions on the Ramblas.

Inside town the railway becomes a landscaped cycle path, part of the Carrilet route that shadows the coast for 14 km to Pineda. Hire bikes from the shop opposite the tourist office (€12 a day, child seats available) and you can pedal to a different beach every morning, returning via hill-top vineyards that sell garnatxa blanca for €4 a bottle. Traffic lights favour bikes over cars—a rare Spanish concession that startles anyone used to dodging SEATs in Palma.

Look up as you wheel along the Riera and you’ll spot Modernista façades the colour of pistachio and peach. These were summer homes for Barcelona textile barons who wanted sea air without relinquishing mosaic floors and wrought-iron balconies. Most are now divided into holiday flats, but the tile-work is intact and there’s no charge for admiring it from the saddle.

Eating: beyond the all-inclusive buffet

Hotel Espanya still lays out chicken nuggets beside the paella—proof that British palates shape the market—but walk three blocks inland and menus switch to Catalan. Cal Boter on Carrer Sant Josep does a three-course lunch for €14: cannelloni smothered in béchamel, then skate wing with romesco, finally crema catalana torched to order. The dining room fills with off-duty police from neighbouring towns; if locals queue, you’ve found the right door.

Fish arrives at dawn. Watch the auction on the pier (06.15, no tourist patter) and you’ll see the day’s dorada change hands in under ten minutes. By 08.00 the same fish is grilled with nothing more than olive oil and rock salt at Bar L’Amar on Passeig de Manuel Puigvert. Add a glass of chilled vermut and the bill struggles to reach €15.

Celiacs note: Canapé café stocks gluten-free croissants, a Costa rarity that earns it a stream of Brighton-based bloggers. They also pour Irish coffee strong enough to erase memories of the 22.30 train deadline.

When to come, when to avoid

May and late-September deliver 24 °C days without the stag-do spillover that colonises July. Hotels cut prices by 25 %, café tables appear on request rather than by fist-fight, and the sea is still warm enough for proper swimming. October brings the Ironman: 2,000 athletes, 5,000 supporters, triple room rates. Spectators love the atmosphere; everyone else flees to neighbouring Pineda.

Winter is breezy and empty. Many bars shutter from November to March; the upside is a promenade wide enough for power-walking abuelas and contemplative Brits who’ve swapped Blackpool drizzle for Mediterranean sparkle. Bring a jumper—Calella sits at sea level and the tramuntana wind can slice straight through a cotton hoodie.

The bottom line

Calella will never win Spain’s beauty contest, and that’s precisely its appeal. It delivers the essentials—cleanish sand, cold beer, easy train—without the Costa del Sol markup. Come for a long weekend and you’ll spend less than a single night in Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter. Stay a week and you’ll learn the bakery opens at 06.00, the bakery closes at 13.30, and everything in between is negotiable with a smile and a stab at Catalan. Pack reef shoes, download the Rodalies timetable, and leave the rose-tinted spectacles at home.