Premià de Mar

The 08:23 from Plaça de Catalunya reaches Premià de Mar in twenty-two minutes. That's quicker than most London commutes, yet the difference is immediate: the air carries salt and pine instead of diesel, and the station platform looks directly onto a beach where locals are already spreading towels before office hours begin.

This coastal town of 29,000 sits just eight metres above sea level, strung along two kilometres of golden sand that functions as Barcelona's communal back garden. Midweek you'll share it with grandparents supervising grandchildren and office workers on their lunch break. Come Saturday morning, the train disgorges families carrying cool boxes and folding chairs, speaking Catalan with the occasional Basque or Madrid accent mixed in. English voices remain rare enough to earn curious glances.

The beach itself is straightforward rather than spectacular. Fine sand shelves gently into water that stays waist-deep for a decent distance, making it practical for swimmers who prefer their Mediterranean without sudden drops. Two breakwaters calm the waves but create a current that runs left to right; stronger swimmers use it as a natural treadmill, floating south then walking back up the sand. The town council rakes the beach nightly and employs lifeguards from May through October, though their tower flies a green flag most days.

Behind the sand runs the Passeig Marítim, a palm-lined promenade wide enough for three abreast. Morning belongs to joggers and parents with pushchairs; evening brings the paseo tradition where couples walk arm-in-arm and teenagers perform elaborate social rituals around the concrete benches. The architecture facing the sea tells the town's story: ground floors house surf shops and ice-cream parlours, while upper balconies reveal who arrived when. Fishermen's cottages sit directly on the sand, their paint weathered to pastel shades. Behind them rise early 20th-century mansions built by Barcelona industrialists who wanted sea views without sacrificing city salaries. Ironwork balconies and ceramic mosaics hint at modernist influences, though architects here favoured restraint over Gaudí's excesses.

The town centre starts three streets back, where the Carrer Major climbs gently away from the sea. This is working Premià rather than tourist Premià: butchers advertise rabbits with heads still attached, pharmacies display homeopathic remedies alongside sunscreen, and the Wednesday market fills Plaça de l'Ajuntament with produce from the Maresme's market gardens. British visitors often miss this commercial heart, distracted by the beach, but it's where you'll find the €1.20 café con leche and bakeries that sell coques – Catalan flatbreads topped with roasted vegetables – by weight.

The Sea That Shaped Everything

Premià's relationship with the Mediterranean runs deeper than tourism. The harbour, rebuilt in the 1990s, shelters 250 boats but still functions as a working port. Fishing boats leave at 04:00 and return by 10:00; their catch appears on restaurant menus the same lunchtime. Watch from the breakwater and you'll see crews mending nets using techniques their grandparents employed, though GPS now guides them to shoals rather than instinct alone.

The town's maritime museum occupies what was once a tuna processing plant. Exhibits explain how almadraba fishing – an elaborate system of nets and boats – supplied Premià's canneries until overfishing ended the practice in the 1960s. Black-and-white photographs show the beach crowded with women cleaning sardines, children labouring alongside mothers. It's a reminder that this stretch of coast industrialised early, its prosperity built on preserving fish rather than serving tourists.

That heritage survives in the kitchen. Restaurants along the harbour serve suquet de peix, a fisherman stew that uses yesterday's unsold catch, and esqueixada – salt cod shredded and dressed with tomatoes, onions and black olives. Portions tend towards the generous; the fixed-price lunch menu, typically €14-16, includes wine and dessert. Brits expecting chips with everything should ask for patates fregides – they'll arrive, but the waiter might sigh first.

Beyond the Sand

The geography that created Premià's beach also limits its expansion. The town backs onto the Serralada Litoral, a coastal mountain range that rises sharply to 500 metres within three kilometres. This creates a microclimate: mornings often start misty – locals call it boira – but burn off by 11:00. Summer temperatures average 28°C, five degrees cooler than Barcelona, while winter brings the occasional frost that shocks the bougainvillea into silence.

These hills provide the afternoon activity. The Camí de Ronda, originally a patrol path against smugglers, now forms part of the GR92 long-distance trail. Heading north reaches El Masnou in forty minutes, passing bunkers – concrete pillboxes built during the Civil War – that teenagers have claimed as hangouts. Southwards, the path climbs to the Ermita de Sant Mateu, a 16th-century chapel that served as a refuge from Barbary pirates. The 45-minute walk switchbacks through pine and rosemary; from the terrace Barcelona's skyline appears toy-like, while the sea stretches uninterrupted towards Mallorca.

Cyclists favour the inland route following the riera – a seasonal river that floods dramatically every decade or so, then spends years as a dusty trench. The paved track leads to medieval farmhouses converted into weekend restaurants serving calçots, giant spring onions grilled over vine embers and eaten with romesco sauce. It's messy work; bibs are provided and should be used.

When the Day Trippers Leave

Evening reveals Premià's split personality. The last direct train to Barcelona departs at 22:34; miss it and you're changing at Montgat, adding twenty minutes to the journey. Consequently, nights remain resolutely local. Elderly men play petanca under streetlights on the Passeig Marítim, their metal balls clacking rhythmically. Younger residents gather at xiringuitos – beach bars that operate under special licences allowing plastic chairs on the sand. Conversation dominates; there's no karaoke, no Premier League football on giant screens, no happy hour promotions.

This isn't sophistication so much as indifference. Premià doesn't need to entertain visitors because Barcelona absorbs the stag parties and cruise-ship excursions. What the town offers instead is continuity: the same families have run the same businesses for generations, their children returning after university because coastal living trumps city rents. New arrivals – often Germans or Dutch who buy apartments as second homes – integrate quietly, learning Catalan and observing the siesta hours that shut everything between 14:00 and 17:00.

The arrangement suits everyone until August, when the town's population triples and parking becomes theoretical. Even then, crowds remain Spanish rather than international. The Feast of Sant Pere, patron saint of fishermen, fills the last week of June with sardanes – circle dances that anyone can join – and correfocs, literally fire-runs where devils chase children with fireworks. It's spectacular, deafening and not recommended for dogs or anyone with respiratory issues.

September returns Premià to itself. The sea stays warm enough for swimming through October, cafes reduce prices, and the train guards greet regulars by name. It's the season that reveals the town's essential appeal: not as a destination demanding tick-box sightseeing, but as a place that demonstrates how Mediterranean living works when tourism supplements rather than replaces real life. Come for the beach if you must, but stay for the rhythm: morning coffee at 10:00, lunch at 14:00, evening stroll at 19:00, dinner at 21:30. The timetable hasn't changed in decades, and Premià sees no reason to adjust it now.