El Masnou

The 7.23 am train from Barcelona pulls in with a metallic sigh, releasing commuters who stride straight onto the sand. Within three minutes, laptop bags have been swapped for towels and the morning swim ritual begins. This is El Masnou's defining quirk: a working railway that separates the town from its beach, yet somehow stitches both halves together.

Twenty kilometres north of Plaça de Catalunya, the resort carries 25,000 permanent residents but feels smaller. The grid of 19th-century shipbuilders' houses stops abruptly at the tracks; beyond them, a two-kilometre arc of caramel-coloured sand faces south-east, angled just enough to catch the sunrise over the water. Trains thunder past every fifteen minutes, close enough to rattle coffee cups on harbour terraces. Rather than a nuisance, the rhythm becomes a metronome for the day: one whistle for mid-morning coffee, another for sunset vermouth.

Salt under the floorboards

Start in the old quarter, where lanes barely two metres wide tilt towards the sea. The baroque bell-tower of Sant Pere marks the highest point; from its steps every street funnels downhill to the marina. Half-timbered balconies lean out as if checking the weather, their terracotta tiles still scarred with soot from the last century's shipyard furnaces. El Masnou built schooners for the Caribbean trade until the 1880s; the slipways have become yacht pontoons, yet the smell of pine resin and diesel lingers in the yard.

Beside the water, the Museu Municipal de Náutica occupies a 1911 modernista ticket hall whose iron canopy was designed to shelter first-class passengers boarding steam packets for Majorca. Inside, glass cases hold sextants, rolled charts and a 1:20 scale model of the schooner Montserrat—launched here in 1854, wrecked off Cuba twelve years later. Admission is free on Sunday mornings; allow twenty minutes, thirty if you like knots.

Two beaches, two moods

The main town beach, Platja del Masnou, is family territory. Sand is coarse—think Bournemouth rather than the Whitsundays—yet the slope is gentle and lifeguards stay until seven. Paddleboards rent for €12 an hour at the northern end; locals favour the southern stretch where the train viaduct throws shade after four. Noise from the N-II is constant, but a subterranean passagels tunnel under both road and rails every 200 m, so children can dash to the ice-cream kiosk without negotiating traffic.

Five minutes north, Ocata beach feels like another parish. The same railway line halts here, yet the platform sits behind dunes planted with dwarf pines. Width doubles, crowds thin, and on weekdays you can claim twenty metres of frontage. Bring coins for the beach shower (€0.20, cold only) and expect to share the shallows with Optimist dinghies from the sailing club. Weekenders from Barcelona arrive with cool-boxes and folding tables; by 3 pm the sand resembles a low-rise picnic that happens to have sea views.

Lunch beyond the guidebooks

Harbour restaurants look interchangeable—blue awning, faded photograph of the owner's boat—yet prices diverge sharply. At Can Tapiola, grilled sardines arrive head-on, sprinkled only with sea salt and a lemon wedge. Four fish cost €7.80, bread and alioli included, but they run out by two o'clock. Skip the English menu; the Catalan version lists yesterday's catch at half the price. Locals start with pa amb tomàquet, rubbing tomato pulp and garlic directly onto toasted baguette; it's safer for fussy juniors than the esqueixada, raw salt cod tossed with onions and black olives.

Wine comes from Alella, the DO region that climbs inland behind town. The local xarel·lo grape yields a lemony white that tastes of green apples and sea spray—perfect with fried baby squid. Supermarket price hovers around €5; restaurants mark it up to €16, still cheaper than Rioja imports.

When the wind changes

Autumn is the clever season. Sea temperature lags air by a month, so late September brings 24 °C water and hotel rates that tumble below €70. Morning mist rolls off the Littoral range, burning back to reveal a cobalt horizon; by eleven the promenade fills with retirees power-walking to Argentona and back. Winter, conversely, can feel brutal. The tramuntana wind whistles down from the Pyrenees, whipping sand against café windows. Several restaurants close January to March; those that stay put serve thick chickpea stew and keep the coffee machine humming for dock workers repairing hulls.

Spring carries its own hazard: diades, local fiesta days when neighbouring towns stage human-castle competitions. Trains overflow with teenagers in matching shirts; if you board at El Masnou on the second weekend of May, expect to stand as far as Mataró. Book accommodation early—the same Barcelonans who snub the town in August return en masse for calçotades, outdoor barbecues where spring onions are charred black then dipped into romesco sauce.

Practicalities without the brochure speak

Rodalies line R1 connects Barcelona-Plaça Catalunya to El Masnou in 19 minutes; trains continue north to Blanes if you fancy a change of sand. A T-Casual ten-journey ticket costs €11.35—use the same card for metro, bus and tram within the city. Light sleepers should request rooms at the rear of Hotel Masnou or accept earplugs; the midnight freight to Portbou still runs. Parking near the beach is metered at €2 an hour June to September; spaces vanish by ten, so arrive early or use the free gravel patch behind the tennis club.

Market days are Wednesday and Saturday until 2 pm: stalls colonise Passeig de Prat de la Riba, selling everything from razor clams to knock-off espadrilles. Bring cash—most vendors reject cards below €10. The municipal library on Carré d'Argentona offers free Wi-Fi and clean toilets; password changes weekly and is written on the whiteboard behind the desk.

Parting shot

El Masnou will never make the front page of a glossy travel supplement. It lacks the cliff-top drama of Cadaqués or the medieval wow of Besalú. What it offers instead is a working blueprint for coastal living within commuting distance of a major city: an honest beach, properly strong coffee, and the realisation that the train line connecting you to Barcelona culture also delivers you back to a swim before dinner. Come for a day, stay for a week, but don't expect silence—here, the soundtrack is the clack of rails, the clink of masts, and the splash of someone diving in before the office opens.