Montgat

The 25-minute train ride from Barcelona costs €2.40. That single fact explains everything about Montgat: close enough for office workers to afford city salaries, far enough that the sand doesn't feel like a business meeting. When the Rodalies train doors slide open at Montgat station, Barcelona's skyline stays visible across the water like a distant promise you can choose to ignore for a few hours.

What the Sea Left Behind

Montgat's beach stretches 1.8 kilometres between railway tracks and Mediterranean, a thin strip of golden sand that survived decades of coastal development. The town sits just 20 metres above sea level—barely enough elevation to keep the holiday apartments from flooding during winter storms. Those storms have grown meaner recently; walk the promenade and you'll spot sections where half the beach vanished overnight, leaving concrete breakwaters exposed like broken teeth.

The erosion hasn't stopped locals from claiming their territory. Morning swimmers arrive year-round, carrying towels in September when British tourists have long fled home. They know the trick: the water here stays cleaner than Barcelona's, protected from the city's harbour currents. Fishermen cast lines from the breakwater, their hooks landing dangerously close to paddling children. Lifeguards whistle warnings, but the anglers shrug—they were here first.

During summer weekends, the beach fills with Catalan families who've driven up from Badalona or down from Mataró. They bring entire picnics: proper knives for slicing tomatoes, ceramic dishes for olives, wine glasses that survive the journey in padded bags. British visitors stand out immediately, clutching supermarket baguettes and cans of Estrella. The chiringuito staff recognise the accent and automatically suggest a clara—beer mixed with lemon soda, essentially Spanish shandy that costs €3 and solves dehydration faster than water.

Where the Village Hid

Behind the seafront, Montgat reveals its split personality. The original core clusters around Carrer Major, where two-storey houses painted in faded yellows and blues maintain the proportions of a fishing village. Then come the apartment blocks from the 1970s, built when Barcelona's middle classes discovered coastal living. Park between these two worlds on a weekday afternoon and you'll hear English voices—teachers from international schools, tech workers on hybrid contracts, the accidental expats who realised they could afford rent here.

The Church of Sant Pere de Reixac anchors the old quarter, its Romanesque bones modified so many times that historians argue over what's original. Inside, the stone floors slope noticeably toward the altar, worn smooth by centuries of Sunday processions. The priest conducts mass in Catalan; visitors who speak Spanish catch roughly every third word. Photography is allowed, but flash isn't—the elderly parishioners will scold you in rapid-fire Catalan that needs no translation.

Can Titus Park provides the only proper green space, five hectares where teenagers practice football and grandparents play petanca on dusty courts. British parents appreciate the playground's rubber safety surface, installed after EU funding arrived in 2019. Local kids race around speaking Catalan peppered with English football terms: "passa, passa" followed by "man on, man on" when fathers coach from the sidelines.

Eating Between Two Worlds

Restaurant choices reflect Montgat's identity crisis. Fonda Marina occupies a 19th-century house on Carrer Major, its English menu offering "grilled fish of today" without specifying which day. The seafood paella arrives properly dry, not swimming in tomato soup that British tourists mistake for authentic. Portions serve two hungry people; solo diners receive sympathetic looks and extra bread.

Down at the beach, chiringuitos operate on Barcelona time—kitchens close at 4 pm sharp, reopen for dinner at 8. The calamares bocadillo costs €6.50 and arrives stuffed into baguette with enough garlic mayonnaise to ward off vampires. Vegetarians discover coca de recapte, a flatbread topped with roasted aubergines and red peppers that tastes like pizza's Catalan cousin. Order it during busy periods and expect a 40-minute wait; the kitchen consists of two men, one grill, and zero sense of urgency.

Supermarket options disappoint anyone planning self-catering. The single Spar stocks British tea bags at €4.50 per box, next to instant paella kits that insult every local grandmother. Serious shopping requires the train back to Barcelona, or driving ten kilometres to Badalona's Carrefour. Many residents simply cross the footbridge to the station each morning, commuting to city jobs that fund their seaside evenings.

When to Time Your Escape

October delivers Montgat at its best. Sea temperatures hover around 20°C—cold for locals, refreshing for Brits accustomed to Cornwall. The beach empties except for dog walkers and determined swimmers wearing bright caps. Apartment rental drops to €60 nightly, down from August's €150 madness. Restaurants serve without reservations; waiters have time to explain why the wine list features only Catalan bottles.

Winter brings different challenges. Trains run less frequently, sometimes cancelled when Mediterranean storms flood the tracks. The promenade becomes a wind tunnel where umbrellas invert spectacularly. But on clear January mornings, Barcelona's outline appears sharper than any postcard, snow-capped Pyrenees visible behind the city. Locals claim these days make enduring summer crowds worthwhile—they get the beach back when everyone leaves.

March arrives foggy and unpredictable. One morning brings T-shirt weather, the next requires proper coats. British visitors misjudge this regularly, shivering in shorts while Catalans wear padded jackets. The beach bars reopen gradually—first weekend service, then daily from Easter regardless of weather. Fishing boats return to the breakwater, selling catch directly from plastic crates. Ask for "gambas de Palamós" and receive prawns that taste like the sea, not the freezer.

Leaving Without Goodbye

The last train back to Barcelona departs at 11:18 pm. Miss it and you'll discover Montgat's taxi situation: there isn't one. The rank sits permanently empty; drivers operate from Badalona and refuse short trips. Walking to the neighbouring town takes 25 minutes along poorly lit roads where pavements disappear randomly. British tourists learn this lesson annually, posting angry TripAdvisor reviews about "third-world transport" that make locals laugh.

Better to catch that final train, watching apartment lights fade as the carriage rattles toward the city. You'll pass the same factories and warehouses that commuters ignore daily, realising Montgat's greatest luxury isn't the beach or the food—it's permission to leave. Barcelona's chaos waits at the other end, but for one afternoon you lived where the mountains meet the sea without paying city prices or enduring city crowds. The €2.40 ticket bought you temporary citizenship of a place that refuses to choose between village and suburb, traditional and modern, Catalan and everything else that washes up on its shrinking shore.