La Sénia

The first thing you notice is the furniture shops. Dozens of them, warehouse after warehouse, line the approach road into La Sénia like a bizarre welcome committee. It's an odd introduction to a town that most British visitors have never heard of, yet this parade of sofas and dining sets hints at something the guidebooks miss: this is a working town first, a destination second.

La Sénia sits where Catalonia's olive groves begin their climb towards the Ports mountains, 27 kilometres inland from the nearest decent beach. With 5,000 inhabitants, it's substantial enough to support proper shops and bars, yet small enough that the Saturday market outside the 18th-century church fits comfortably into the main square. The stalls occupy barely half the plaza – local honey, cheap socks, and tomatoes that still smell of soil – but linger for ten minutes and you'll hear accents mingling from three regions. This is border country; Valencia and Aragón lie within a half-hour drive.

The old quarter spills downhill from the church, a maze of stone houses where streets narrow to single-car width. Don't even think about driving in. Visitors attempting it invariably end up reversing the entire length, mirrors folded, whilst neighbours watch from doorways with the resigned patience of people who've seen it all before. Park by the ayuntamiento instead and walk. The climb's worth it for views across roofs towards the olive carpet stretching southwards.

Those trees aren't mere scenery. La Sénia guards over 4,000 ancient olives, some pushing a millennium in age. They're not clustered in a tidy heritage park but scattered across working farms, their gnarled trunks rising from red earth like sculptures. The Millenary Olive Route links several villages, though you'll need a car and a good map. Pull over where tracks disappear between dry-stone walls and walk until you find a specimen whose hollow trunk could shelter a sheep. These trees still produce oil; farmers will tell you, with justified pride, that their families have harvested the same groves for twenty generations.

Back in town, the Museu de la Sénia occupies a former agricultural warehouse near the river. It's modest – an hour covers the evolution from hand-pressed oil to mechanised harvest – but provides context for what you've seen. The displays explain why furniture manufacturing took root here: abundant timber from mountain forests, cheap land for factories, and excellent road links to Barcelona and Valencia. Those warehouses suddenly make sense.

The serious mountains begin where the olive groves end. Within ten minutes' drive, the road to Ulldecona Dam twists upwards through pine forests where Spanish ibex occasionally appear on crags above. The reservoir, when it appears, feels almost Scandinavian – deep blue water ringed by pines, empty pedalos bobbing at a tiny beach. Local families pack the picnic tables on summer Sundays; British visitors tend to claim the shaded walking track that loops for 90 minutes through bee-forest. The scent of pine and wild thyme drifts across the path, and the only sounds are cicadas and the occasional splash of someone brave enough to swim.

For proper hiking, the Ports massif offers serious altitude. Trails start at 500 metres and climb rapidly; within an hour you can gain 600 metres of elevation through scrubby oak to proper mountain forest. The difference in temperature is immediate – welcome relief in August when the plain below shimmers in 35-degree heat. Even in May, pack a fleece; the tramontana wind that barrels through these valleys can drop temperatures ten degrees in an hour.

The coast lies 27 kilometres away, close enough for a beach day but far enough that La Sénia keeps its inland rhythm. Les Cases d'Alcanar, a fishing village with decent seafood restaurants, provides the nearest sand. Vinaròs, twenty minutes further, delivers the full Spanish resort experience – promenade, ice-cream parlours, and British newspapers in the kiosks. Yet most visitors find themselves drawn inland again, perhaps to the Delta de l'Ebre forty-five kilometres south. Flamingos stalk through rice fields there, and beaches stretch empty for miles where the river meets the Mediterranean.

Eating in La Sénia follows agricultural cycles, not tourist demands. Lunch happens early – bars fill at 1:30 pm, empty by 3:30. The menu del día in furniture-shop cafés offers three courses plus wine for €12-14; expect proper Catalan cooking rather than tourist fare. Coca de recapte, a flatbread topped with roasted vegetables and sausage, provides a gentle introduction for cautious palates. Oil appears at every meal, often in bottles that last night's diners helped fill from stainless-steel tanks. Taste it on toasted bread with a sprinkle of salt and you understand why those ancient trees matter.

Evenings bring the paseo. Families drift between church square and river promenade, children on bikes weaving between grandparents who stop to discuss rainfall and olive prices. Tourists stand out immediately – not through hostility, but because everyone else knows everyone. Sit at a terrace table, order a caña, and within minutes someone will ask where you're from and whether you've seen the millennium olive yet.

Practicalities matter here. A car is essential; Sunday buses simply don't exist. Reus airport, 115 kilometres north, provides the easiest arrival – all motorway after Tarragona, usually empty except for lorries carrying furniture southwards. Bring cash; several bars still regard card machines as new-fangled nonsense. May and late September offer perfect hiking weather with empty trails. August turns furnace-hot; Spanish families pack the dam, and mountain walking becomes an early-morning-only activity.

La Sénia won't charm you with chocolate-box perfection. Its appeal lies deeper – in continuity, in landscapes shaped by centuries of careful stewardship, in conversations that move seamlessly between Catalan and Spanish depending on who joined the group. Come for the olive trees, stay for the realisation that some places still make their living from the land rather than from visitors. Just remember to park outside the old quarter.