Sant Andreu de Llavaneres

The 114-Metre Commute

The train from Barcelona takes forty-five minutes. That's all—three stops after Mataró, the carriage doors open and the city drops away. Passengers spill onto a platform perched 114 metres above the Mediterranean; ahead lie pine-scented hills, behind them the sea glints through gaps in apartment blocks. Most travellers have never heard of Sant Andreu de Llavaneres, which suits the locals fine. They've spent a century perfecting the art of being within reach of the capital yet entirely separate from it.

This is commuter-belt Catalonia, but not as Britons know it. Forget Costa del Sol high-rises or Costa Brava package strips. The Maresme coast runs on a different clock: morning markets where grandmothers still haggle over peas the size of marbles, yacht clubs where cashmere sweaters appear the moment the thermometer drops below 20 °C, and beaches where you're more likely to overhear Catalan than Cockney. The village—Llavaneres to its friends—has served as Barcelona's discreet summer lung since textile barons built Modernista mansions here in the 1920s. Their descendants still arrive on Fridays, carrier bags from the city's best delicatessens swinging in the luggage rack.

Between the N-II and the Pine Trees

Altitude matters. From the station, Carrer de l'Església zigzags downhill past the Romanesque church rebuilt in sober eighteenth-century stone. The street narrows, houses shrink to village scale, and suddenly you're at the N-II—the old coast road that rumbles with lorries heading for France. Cross underneath via a graffiti-tagged subway and the world changes again. Yacht masts clink in Port Balís, the marina built in the 1970s when fishermen yielded to bankers. Three small beaches—Les Barques, l'Estació, Balís—curve round a bay framed by railway embankment and pine-clad headland. The sand is proper Mediterranean gold, not the imported stuff trucked into Magaluf, but the backdrop screams infrastructure: concrete breakwaters, the occasional train clattering past, the persistent hum of traffic. It's honest, not idyllic, and all the better for it.

Walk east along the foreshore and the concrete eventually gives way to pine-scented footpaths that climb towards the hermitage of Sant Vicenç de Montalt. The ascent takes twenty minutes; flip-flops won't cut it. At the top, the coast unfurls from the Barceloneta skyline to the looming massif of Montserrat. Sunset crowds gather here at weekends—mostly locals carrying tins of Estrella and portable speakers—so arrive early if you want silence with your panorama.

What the Guidebooks Don't Mention

Llavaneres has no souvenir shops. The tourist office opens Tuesday and Thursday mornings, if at all. This is a place that functions for its residents first, visitors second. That means breakfast at Can Tòfol, where elderly men debate FC Barcelona over cortados, and where the waitress will pretend not to understand Spanish until you attempt Catalan. It means market day on Wednesday: stalls colonise Plaça de l'Església with strawberries that actually taste of something, and with those famous garrofal peas—fat, sweet, and £8 a kilo. Buy early; by 11 a.m. the pile is picked clean.

The Modernista trail is similarly low-key. No tickets, no audio guides. Simply wander Carrer de Sant Francesc and Carrer de la Creu until you spot curved balconies, trencadís mosaics, and turrets that wouldn't look out of place in Kensington. Most houses hide behind electric gates; their owners, descendants of the original textile dynasties, arrive in June and leave after the Festa Major. Peer through the railings and you'll see fountains dribbling into lily ponds, bougainvillea spilling across stone balustrades, the occasional Tesla. It's voyeuristic, mildly awkward, and utterly compelling.

When Hunger Strikes

British expectations of Spanish coastal food—paella the colour of a Dulux chart, chips with everything—won't be met. At Taverna del Port, monkfish arrives simply grilled, no sauce, just a lemon wedge and a bill that makes you blink. The set lunch at Ca l'Esteve changes daily: perhaps salt-cod croquettes, then rabbit stewed with prunes, finally that flatbread called coca de Llavaneres—more pastry than cake, studded with pine nuts and coarse sugar. Wine is local, from the Alella valley three stops south, and arrives in a glass that costs less than the bottle of San Miguel you nursed on the beach. Book ahead at weekends; even the yacht-set queues.

Evenings wind down fast. A couple of bars stay open past midnight—Bar del Mar for gin-tonics the size of goldfish bowls, Pub L'Anxaneta for live acoustic sets—but don't expect Magaluf mayhem. British teenagers discovered Llavaneres in 2019 and were sent packing by a coalition of vigilant abuelas and early-rising sailors. The last train back to Barcelona departs at 23.36; miss it and you're looking at a €60 taxi or a night on the sand.

Moving On, or Staying Put

Practicalities: without wheels you'll manage, but barely. The station sits uphill; the beach lies below. The walk takes ten minutes, longer if you're laden with cool boxes and children. Buses exist in theory, appear sporadically in practice. Hire a car at Mataró if you want to explore the interior vineyards or the fortified Iberian settlement at Burriac. Cyclists swear by the coast road at dawn, before lorries outnumber lycra. Golfers head inland to Club de Golf Llavaneres, where the tenth green floats above the sea and the green fee tops €80 mid-week.

Come shoulder season—May, late September—the place breathes. Temperatures hover in the low twenties, beaches empty, restaurant owners remember your name. August is a different beast: parking spaces vanish, hotel rates double, the Wednesday market becomes a scrum. Winter brings tramontana winds that whistle through marina rigging; many restaurants shut from January to March. Choose your moment wisely.

The Return Leg

Board the 16.36 at Balís and within an hour you're back under the arc lights of Plaça Catalunya, salt still crusted on your skin. The contrast is brutal, deliberate. Llavaneres doesn't sell itself as an escape; it simply is one. No postcards in the station kiosk, no fridge magnets shaped like anchovies. Just the lingering taste of those peas, the memory of a sunset shared with Catalan strangers who offered crisps and conversation, and the realisation that thirty-five kilometres can feel like three hundred. Next Friday, the same seats will fill with Barcelona's escapees. Few will notice the Briton among them, already planning the return.