Godall

The bakery opens at seven, but the queue starts earlier. By half past six, villagers clutching cloth bags gather outside Forn de Pa Roca, waiting for the first batch of coca to emerge—flatbread topped with roasted peppers and anchovies that tastes nothing like the pizza it resembles. This is morning ritual in Godall, a village where 800 souls live at 170 metres above sea level, surrounded by 2,000-year-old olive trees that have witnessed more history than most cathedrals.

The Pull of the Interior

Twenty-five kilometres inland from the Mediterranean, Godall occupies that sweet spot where coastal breezes temper mountain air. The difference is immediate: mornings arrive cooler than the coast, afternoons stretch longer without the sea's humidity, and evenings bring a hush broken only by church bells and the occasional tractor. It's precisely this distance from the beach that has preserved the village's character—no souvenir shops, no English breakfast cafes, just stone houses that have housed the same families for generations.

The agricultural rhythm dominates. When almond trees explode into white blossom during February's brief window, the landscape transforms into something resembling snowfall. By May, the same trees bear green husks that locals harvest for market in nearby Tortosa. Olive picking begins in November and continues through January, with mechanical harvesters working alongside elderly farmers who still prefer the traditional method of beating branches with long poles. The resulting arbequina oil—mild, almost buttery—sells for €12 a litre at the cooperative on Carrer Major, where Maria will insist you taste three varieties before making your selection.

Walking Through Time

The old town reveals itself gradually. Narrow streets twist between houses built from local limestone, their wooden doors painted in colours that have faded to subtle ochres and terracottas. At Plaça de l'Església, the Church of Sant Jaume stands solid and unadorned—rebuilt in the 18th century after earthquake damage, its bell tower serves as both timekeeper and landmark for anyone who loses their bearings in the maze of lanes.

Getting lost is half the pleasure. One minute you're following Calle de la Cruz, the next you've emerged onto a path between vegetable gardens where chickens scratch in the dust. The village measures barely a kilometre across, yet contains enough turns and dead ends to occupy an afternoon's wandering. Look for the medieval archway on Carrer del Forn—barely noticeable until you're standing beneath it—and the communal washing trough where women still gather to scrub clothes, though now they chat on mobile phones while working.

The surrounding countryside offers proper walking territory. A network of farm tracks connects Godall to neighbouring hamlets like La Galera and La Senia, passing through landscapes that shift with elevation. The GR-92 long-distance footpath skirts the village, following ancient routes used by muleteers transporting olives to coastal ports. Spring brings wild asparagus and rosemary to forage; autumn carpets the paths with fallen almonds that crunch underfoot. Summer walking requires planning—temperatures hit 35°C by midday, and shade exists only where olive groves grow dense enough to create their own microclimate.

What Grows Here

The Saturday market occupies Plaça Nova from eight until one, transforming the sleepy square into something approaching bustle. Stallholders drive from coastal towns to sell fish caught the previous night—red mullet, sea bream, the occasional dorado—while local producers offer honey thick enough to stand a spoon in, and sausages cured in mountain air that carries hints of thyme and lavender. The cheese man arrives from Ports Natural Park with goat's cheese so fresh it squeaks between your teeth, wrapped in dried fig leaves that impart subtle sweetness.

Eating well requires insider knowledge. Restaurant Ca L'Àngel opens only weekends and serves whatever Pilar decides to cook—perhaps mountain rice with rabbit and rosemary, or snails gathered from vineyards after rain. Book ahead: five tables fill quickly with families celebrating Sunday lunch. During weeknights, Bar Central provides simpler fare—grilled meats, tomato-rubbed bread, local wine that costs €2.50 a glass and tastes of sun-baked slopes. The flour-throwing festival of Els Enfarinats (late January) turns the bar into ground zero for a food fight that predates La Tomatina by centuries—wear old clothes and expect to find flour in your ears for days.

Practical Realities

Reaching Godall demands wheels. The nearest train station lies twenty minutes away in Ulldecona, served by regional services from Barcelona Sants that take two hours and twenty minutes. From there, buses run twice daily except Sundays, but schedules align poorly with British flight arrivals. Car hire from Reus airport (Ryanair's route) makes infinitely more sense—the drive south along AP-7 takes ninety minutes, passing through landscapes that transition from coastal plain to rolling hills where almond orchards replace rice paddies.

Accommodation options remain limited but improving. Lo Taller de Casa Juano converts a former garage into minimalist loft space with mountain views and faster Wi-Fi than most London cafes. The owners, returned from twenty years in Manchester, understand British expectations—proper coffee maker, decent pillows, information folder written in English that doesn't promise "typical Spanish experiences." Casa Rural Mas de L'Avi offers more traditional stone farmhouse accommodation three kilometres outside the village, complete with pool and gardens where tortoises wander between rosemary bushes.

The Honest Truth

Godall won't suit everyone. Monday finds the village shuttered and silent—the bakery closed, bar dark, only the pharmacy open for essentials. Summer afternoons drag interminably when siesta empties streets and even dogs seek shade beneath parked cars. Mobile signal disappears entirely in certain corners of the old town, forcing digital detox whether requested or not. Rain transforms farm tracks into mud that clings to boots and requires proper removal before entering anywhere respectable.

Yet these same qualities attract the particular type of traveller who discovers Godall and returns annually. Cyclists praise empty roads where thirty kilometres might pass before encountering traffic. Birdwatchers base themselves here for delta excursions while enjoying mountain quiet after busy days spotting flamingos. Food enthusiasts discover that proximity to both coast and mountains means sea urchins for breakfast and wild boar for dinner, all within thirty minutes' drive.

The village reveals its secrets slowly. After a week, the bakery staff remember how you take coffee. After two, neighbours nod recognition during evening walks. After a month—should you stay that long—you'll find yourself invited to Sunday lunch where grandmother serves rabbit stew and discusses, in rapid Catalan, the precise differences between this year's olive harvest and last. Godall offers no instant gratification, just the gradual realisation that somewhere between the olive groves and the mountain shadows, you've experienced Catalonia as it exists when tourists aren't watching.