Mataró

The 07:38 from Barcelona Estació del Nord is still half-empty when it hisses away from the platform, but by the time it reaches Mataró thirty-eight minutes later every seat is taken and the aisle smells of strong coffee and yesterday’s aftershave. Commuters pour out, briefcases in one hand, swim-bags in the other; the beach is a seven-minute walk from the station and the office starts at nine. That brisk dual-purpose rhythm tells you more about the place than any guidebook.

Mataró does not pause for visitors. With 130,000 residents it is the largest town on the Maresme strip, and it behaves like it: fishing boats still unload at dawn, containers rattle through the southern port, and the Saturday market in Plaça Gran occupies every centimetre of pavement. Tourism registers, but only as a sideshow. The result is prices a third lower than Barcelona, beaches you can actually spread a towel on in August, and restaurants where the waiter will apologise—in Catalan—because the sea bream has just sold to the family at the next table.

A harbour that refuses to choose

The two ports—fishing and pleasure—sit shoulder-to-shoulder, separated by a line of bollards and attitude. Yacht masts clink like champagne glasses while, fifty metres away, overalled crews hose down decks stained with sardine scales. At 17:00 the daily auction begins in the lonja; anyone can slip in, pretend to know what’s going on, and watch crates of red prawns disappear in seconds. The waterfront walkway starts here and runs north for almost 3 km, passing chiringuito bars that smell of garlic and seawater. Platja del Varador, closest to the centre, has lifeguards, wheelchair ramps and pedalos shaped like swans. Carry on another fifteen minutes and you reach Platja de Sant Simó, where the railway line bends inland and the sand quiets to a murmur. On a weekday in June you might share it with a retired local reading El Periódico and a dog that refuses to fetch.

Brick, stone and early Gaudí

Turn your back on the sea and the grid tightens. Mataró’s old core is only a few streets wide—enough for a twenty-minute wander, enough to get pleasantly lost. The basilica of Santa María squats at the top of the slope, a patchwork of Romanesque bones, Gothic grafts and Baroque icing. Inside, the smell is candle-wax and old timber; outside, swallows nest in the bell-tower loudspeaker. Two blocks east, Carró de Santa Anna hides Casa Coll i Regàs, a Modernista flourish designed by Josep Puig i Cadafalch in 1898. The stone façade looks bruised under layers of soot, but the iron balconies still curl like ivy and the guided tour (€6, Saturdays only) finishes with a shot of sweet moscatel in the former kitchen.

Few visitors realise they are standing beside Antoni Gaudí’s CV in stone. The Nau Gaudí, built in 1878 as a textile cooperative, was his first commission after qualifying. The parabolic arches that later became shorthand for Sagrada Família are here in embryo, holding up a roof of raw brick. The building now houses a contemporary art centre; entry is free on Wednesday afternoons, and the caretaker will point out where the loom shafts once rattled.

When the mountains dip their toes

Behind the town the coastal range rises sharply to 500 m, close enough for the evening tramontana wind to carry the scent of pine and wild rosemary onto the promenade. A web of signed paths starts at the Torre Llauder archaeological site—Roman villa mosaics guarded by a perspex roof and a sleepy cat. The most popular route follows the Camí de Ronda north for 5 km to the hamlet of Sant Andreu de Llavaneres, threading vineyards, railway tunnels and rocky coves where clothing is optional. Allow two hours and carry water; the only bar en route closes on Mondays. In July the mercury can top 34 °C, but the sea is never more than a ten-minute scramble downhill.

Eating what the nets bring in

Gastronomy here is geography on a plate. Breakfast might be pa amb tomàquet rubbed with tomato that was in a Vilassar de Dall greenhouse yesterday; lunch is likely fideuà, short noodles cooked in cuttlefish ink and finished with alioli strong enough to ward off vampires. The red prawns, caught between 40 and 120 m depth, appear in April and are gone by late June—order them simply grilled, €18–22 for a half-dozen, and expect a lecture from the waiter if you ask for lemon. For something less theatrical try esqueixada, a salt-cod salad tossed with peppers and black olives, best eaten on a terrace that catches the afternoon sun. The market stalls close at 14:00 sharp; turn up at 13:55 and the fishmonger will fillet your sea bass while apologising for rushing.

Practicalities without the tick-list

Getting here: R2 Nord Rodalies trains leave Barcelona every 20–30 min; the airport shuttle to Estació del Nord adds 25 min. A return ticket is €8.80—about the price of a coffee on the Ramblas.

When to come: Late May and mid-September give you 24 °C water and hotel doubles under €90. July’s Les Santes festival fills every bed; book early or stay away if fireworks at 02:00 are not your lullaby.

Rain alert: October delivers five wet days and 123 mm of water. An umbrella is more use than a phrasebook.

Moving around: Centre and beaches are walkable. For the farther coves take the hourly M14 bus (€1.35) or hire a bike at the station—flat lanes run the length of the seafront.

What it isn’t: Mataró is not a chocolate-box fishing village. The southern skyline is cranes and logistics sheds, and you will hear reversing lorries at dawn. Accept the working edges and you get authenticity in return; fight them and you will leave disappointed.

By the time the 20:11 train back to Barcelona pulls out, the tide has turned and the promenade lights flicker on in sequence. Office workers queue for gelato, grandparents coax toddlers away from the sand, and the smell of grilling sardines drifts across the tracks. No one is taking photos; nobody needs to. Mataró is simply getting on with being itself, and for once that is more than enough.