Esponellà

The church bell strikes noon and the only other sound is a tractor reversing somewhere beyond the stone houses. In Esponellà's single square, an elderly man finishes his coffee, leaves a euro coin beside the saucer and shuffles off. The bar owner locks up behind him—closing time until five—and suddenly you have the place to yourself. Population 467, plus one very surprised visitor.

This is the Catalonia that package holidays forgot. Twenty-five minutes' drive north of Girona airport, the C-66 highway peels off towards Banyoles and the Pyrenees. Most travellers keep their foot down, bound for the Costa Brava's crowded coves or the Dalí theatre in Figueres. Those who exit at "Esponellà/Can Cleda" discover a working village where the day's rhythm is still set by farm bells and the river, not by tour coaches.

A Grid You Can't Get Lost In

Esponellà sits 142 metres above sea-level on a low ridge above the Fluvià river. The medieval core is a tangle of narrow lanes just wide enough for a Citroën van; stone archways lead into courtyards where woodsmoke drifts from kitchen chimneys. There is no centre as such—just the church of Sant Martí, its chunky Romanesque bell-tower patched over the centuries, and the handful of benches that pass for a plaza. A five-minute stroll in any direction brings you to lettuce fields or the shady riverside path, part of the old railway bed now converted into a pancake-flat cycle track.

The architecture is honest rather than pretty: granite lintels, iron balconies painted municipal green, the occasional Modernista flourish on a 1920s doorway. Houses are still owned by local families; few stand empty. That means shutters that close at night and neighbours who notice if you park awkwardly, but it also guarantees an authenticity you won't find in the region's more manicured "rural tourism" villages.

What the Sea Never Reached

Esponellà is land-locked, yet water shapes everything here. The Fluvià once powered two mills; one survives as Can Cleda restaurant, its wheel replaced by a summer terrace where British camper-vanners order "the steak that tastes like Hereford". The river irrigate market gardens whose produce fills the Wednesday stalls in nearby Banyoles—seven kilometres away and the nearest place with a cash machine, so fill your wallet before you arrive.

Because the sea is a forty-minute drive, coastal prices haven't crept inland. A menu del dia at Can Cleda costs €14 and includes wine; the site's municipal tax is still measured in cents, not euros. What you sacrifice in salt-sprayed views you gain in mosquito-dodging riverside walks and the smell of new-mown hay rather than sun-cream. July and August can feel heavy—humidity drifts up from the marsh—so April-June and September-October deliver the best light and the quietest lanes.

Two Wheels, No Hills

Flat countryside makes Esponellà an unlikely cycling hub. British tourers arrive with bikes strapped to the back of VW campers, book a shaded pitch under the plane trees at Camping Esponellà and don't move the van for a week. The campsite lends basic maps: pedal south along the Via Verde and you reach Banyoles lake in twenty minutes, its cobalt water ringed by a 6 km path perfect for wobbling children. Turn north and the track meanders through poplars to Cornellà del Terri and, for the energetic, on to the volcanic Garrotxa hills—proper gradients begin there.

Road cyclists prefer the secondary lanes that stitch together stone farmhouses and hamlets whose names appear only on Catalan signposts. Traffic is light enough to hear the chain on the cassette; drivers still wave. If you arrive without kit, the campsite rents hybrids for €15 a day—nothing flashy, but the tyres are fat enough for the packed-grass river path.

One Bar, One Church, Zero Karaoke

Evenings are short. The supermarket shuts at two on Saturday and doesn't reopen until Monday; plan accordingly. Sunday morning is silent except for church bells and the occasional dog. By eleven the bar is serving coffee and croissants; by two it's closed again. British visitors who expect a pub will be disappointed—there isn't one. Instead you buy cold Estrella from the campsite fridge, sit by the river and listen to nightjars rather than Neil Diamond covers.

Food is straightforward. Breakfast: tomato-rubbed toast and bitter coffee. Lunch: botifarra sausage with white beans, the Catalan answer to Cumberland and mash. Dinner: grilled lake carp or, more reliably, steak frites at Can Cleda. Vegetarians survive on escalivada—smoky aubergine and peppers—while picky children fall back on toasted ham-and-cheese sandwiches served at the campsite bar until nine.

Fiestas Without the Foam Party

Esponellà parties on its own terms. The Festa Major lands around 15 August: a weekend of sack races, communal paella and fireworks that finish politely before midnight. January brings Sant Antoni, when locals light a bonfire beside the river and bring horses, dogs and the odd sheep for blessing. British dog-owners have been known to drive over from Girona just for the photo opportunity. These events are emphatically for neighbours; visitors are welcome but no one will hand you a programme or charge for a plastic cup of sangria.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Girona airport (Ryanair from Stansted, Luton, Manchester; BA from Heathrow) is 25 minutes south on the C-66. Car hire desks sit directly opposite arrivals; pre-booking saves roughly £80 on a week's rental. Without wheels you face a €40 taxi or the hourly bus to Banyoles followed by a very long walk. Barcelona is an option—motorway tolls add €12 each way—but Girona is quieter, nearer and its compact medieval centre rewards an early check-in or late departure.

Accommodation choices are limited: the three-star campsite with its pool and English-speaking reception, or a pair of self-catering cottages booked through the town hall website. There is no hotel, no boutique B&B, no swimming lake within the village itself. For many repeat visitors that's precisely the point.

Leave Before You Need a Cashpoint

Esponellà won't keep you busy for a fortnight. Two quiet days here, then day-trip to Banyoles for rowing boats and ice-cream, to Girona for tapas in the Jewish quarter, or to the coast if you suddenly crave a proper beach. Stay too long and you may find yourself discussing rainfall with the baker in broken Spanish. Leave too soon and you'll miss the moment when dusk settles over the river, swallows skim the water and you realise the only other sound is your own kettle starting to boil.