Hostalric

The stone gateway opens at 10:00 sharp. Not 09:59, not whenever the caretaker finishes his cigarette. Ten o'clock precisely, and the small crowd of early birds shuffles through the Portal de Barcelona into a town that once controlled the main road from the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean. Hostalric doesn't do laid-back Spanish timings when it comes to its castle. That's your first clue this isn't another sleepy hill village content to live off faded glory.

The Fortress That Refused to Retire

Crowning a 160-metre basalt ridge, the 18th-century fort dominates everything. The British-built ramparts you see today replaced a medieval castle after the War of Spanish Succession, turning Hostalric into a key outpost of the Bourbons' new military blueprint for Catalonia. Walk the 600-metre perimeter and you grasp the logic: every approach is exposed to artillery fire, the modern Barcelona highway visible below exactly where the old royal road ran. English signage is thin on the ground, but pick up the leaflet at reception – the audiovisual displays inside the old barracks rooms are genuinely well produced, explaining how the garrison lived, drilled and, occasionally, surrendered.

The climb from the car park takes fifteen minutes if you're fit, twenty-five if you stop to photograph the sheer drop on the eastern side. Trainers are non-negotiable; the stone ramps were designed for boots, not flip-flops. Once at the top, the 360-degree view stretches from Montseny's forested summits to the distant shimmer of the Costa Brava, 18 km away. On clear winter mornings you can pick out the snow-capped Pyrenees; in July the heat haze reduces everything to pastel watercolours. Either way, arrive before 11:00 and you'll share the battlements only with swifts and the occasional school group.

Inside the Walls: Daily Life, Not a Theme Park

Drop back through the portal and you're immediately in somebody's Tuesday. Washing hangs from wrought-iron balconies, a baker wheels crates of ensaïmada into the café on Plaça de l'Església, and the village policeman parks his Seat under a 400-year-old arch with the casual expertise of a man who's done it every day since 1998. Hostalric's historic centre is compact – you can cross it in five minutes – but the grid of narrow lanes rewards wandering. Stone carvings of cannonballs above doorways mark houses rebuilt after the 1714 siege; a tiny modernista pharmacy displays 1920s cobalt bottles in its window.

The parish church of Santa María looks neoclassical because it is: French troops torched the original Romanesque building during the Napoleonic occupation, and townsfolk rebuilt it in the sober style they thought more continental. Step inside around 18:00 and you'll catch the last slant of sun lighting the barrel vault – a photographer's moment that locals ignore because they're queueing for fresh bread next door.

Eating (and Drinking) Like Somebody Who Has to Walk Uphill Afterwards

Hostalric won't win Michelin stars, but it does feed you honestly. Cal Pau, on Carrer Major, appears in the red book's €€ section for modern Catalan plates – think charcoal-grilled leeks with romesco, or pork cheek slow-braised in local red. Book a table on the terrace after 21:00 when the day-trippers have driven back to the coast. Earlier, the menú del día at Can Rafa offers three courses, bread and half a bottle of wine for €16.50; try the butifarra sausage with white beans, a dish that tastes exactly like what a farmer would demand before manning a cannon.

Coffee culture is refreshingly un-Italian: locals linger over a single cortado, read the paper, and leave without theatrics. The bakery beside the church does a respectable croissant if you're homesick, but order a xuixo – a cream-filled, sugar-crusted cylinder invented in nearby Girona – and you'll feel less like you've brought Britain with you.

Beyond the Walls: Forests, Railways and a Hint of the Coast

Hostalric sits at the meeting point of two very different landscapes. North-east, the Selva plain rolls towards the sea; south-west, the Montseny massif climbs to 1,700 m within half an hour's drive. The old drovers' track to Santa Coloma de Farners, now way-marked as a 9 km circular walk, threads through holm-oak and cork forest where wild boar root among last autumn's leaves. Take water – cafés vanish once you're 500 m beyond the gate.

If you'd rather let the train take the strain, the RENFE station is an easy 1 km downhill stroll. Regional trains run twice an hour to Girona (22 min) and Barcelona (1 hr 10 min), making Hostalric a practical base for commuters and visitors alike. Drivers should note that parking inside the walls is residents-only; use the free shaded car park outside the Portal de Cal Figa and accept the five-minute uphill punishment.

The coast tempts, but be realistic: Blanes and its package-holiday hotels lie 20 minutes down the C-32, yet the temperature on the beach can be 6 °C higher than in Hostalric's stone labyrinth. August day-trippers escape the humidity by heading uphill – expect the castle battlements to feel like the August Bank Fair in Buxton come midday.

When to Come, and When to Stay Away

Spring and autumn justify the cliché writers are told to avoid: the weather really is ideal. April sees almond blossom on the ridge and comfortable 18 °C rambles; late September combines clear light with the smell of new wine from cooperatives in the plain below. Winter is crisp, often bright, and almost tourist-free; some cafés reduce hours, but the castle stays open bar Mondays. Summer brings the obvious trade-off – long evenings on the plaza, fiestas with fireworks over the ramparts, but also coach parties and the faint smell of sunscreen on ancient stone.

Hostalric's Fiesta Major (week around 24 August) fills every room within 15 km. Book early or time your visit for the following Tuesday, when normal service resumes and you can hear your own footsteps again. Semana Santa processions are lower-key than Andalucían spectaculars, yet the torch-lit narrow streets create an atmosphere that feels closer to medieval Europe than sunshine Spain.

Leaving by the Same Gate – or Not

The town won't detain you for days. Most visitors allow two hours for the fortress, another hour for lunch, then tick the box and move on. That works, but stay for one evening and you'll see Hostalric shift from monument to home. Lights come on along the ramparts, grandparents claim bench positions with military timing, and the smell of grilled sardines drifts from a side-street bar too small for TripAdvisor to notice. Catch the 22:03 train back to Barcelona if you must, or book the single boutique guest-house inside the walls and wake to the sound of swifts circling the tower that once guarded an empire's highway. The gate still opens at ten, but by then you'll already be drinking coffee beneath it, planning excuses to stay another night.