We all know that experience of waking up somewhere different and taking awhile to grasp where we actually are. I wake for the first time in my Costa Brava bolt hole knowing where I am but not truly comprehending it. It’s barely light as I shuffle stiffly out of bed and across the living room instinctively towards the light from the balcony. I slide open the doors and enter the cinema screen that will leave me every bit as dumbstruck when I see it in the weeks to come.
I’m just in time to catch the dying glow of sunrise as the low sun begins it’s ascent from sea level and rakes long shadows across the fluffy green canopy of pines that proliferate the slopes beneath our balcony. There is no sound or motion except for swifts that dart by acrobatically on their morning mission. The sandy bay of Sant Pol to my left is calm and inviting. A small boat is heading into the harbour town of Sant Feliu to my right. I can just about make out the bulk of a container ship far out to sea, perhaps on its way to Barcelona down the coast. I will never tire of this view.
It’s mild even at this early hour and in just a few minutes the sun has asserted itself fully and blindingly off the coastal waters. Time to unpack the coffee machine.
The first day after any arrival is usually an eye popping affair. In time I will no doubt become oblivious to some of the sights that today fill my senses. The drive to Palamos along the C-31 dual carriageway is pleasing on the eye. Hill top towns rise out of the wooded slopes, every one topped by a stone church spire. The few clear areas of land are given over to agriculture of some sort. Having just put our UK allotment to bed until Spring it’s disconcerting to drive through a landscape where crops are still ripening up in the sun.
We almost plumped for a home rental in Palamos. On first appearances I’m glad we didn’t.
The long beachfront is overshadowed by high rise apartments that you like to think would not be given planning permission in these times. It’s a rarity along this northern stretch of coastline where development has on the whole been more subtly managed. The beach is undeniably impressive but it is the fish market that we have come to visit. In the UK the trawlers tend to return to port in the early hours but we have learnt that they unload here in the late afternoon.
We are the first customers at 5pm and half a dozen long ice counters are submerged with a catch that has only just been lifted off the boats and been sorted. There is too much to take in. Where to start? It is inevitable that we buy too much. It’s who we are. Fish is a way of life for people on this coast. The quantity and variation of seafood available in any town or village exceeds the best we can expect in the UK so we are obliged to make the most of this during our extended stay.
There is a complete change of scene a mere 10 minute stroll up the coastline beyond the commercial moorings. A pleasant harbour is ringed by tasteful low rise apartments, in contrast to the tower blocks we left behind. The entire Costa Brava coastline is well served by walking routes and we follow one bordering the harbour, past a campsite and up into the woods. Camping is very popular here and with this climate is makes a lot of sense.
Our chronic lack of fitness is exposed by the modest slopes. I’m determined to walk myself to fitness in the coming weeks, if I can resist the patisseries that whisper to me on every street corner. I feel it’s going to be a case of 2 steps forward, 1 cake back. The effort is totally worth it as the route unveils itself gradually, culminating in a breathtaking reveal over the next bay. I’m minded to return with a folding chair and just sit here in the sun, except it would be late by the time I returned to the car. And I don’t have a folding chair.
We stand awhile silently, overlooking the sea in the mottled shade of pine trees warmed by a temperate breeze, with not a soul in sight. I’m going to bottle this memory and save it for one of those damp grey bone chilling days that the British winter will inflict on me when I return to home shores.
It’s getting dark early now as we head into the depths of autumn. My favourite part of any town is the old centre, with its winding streets and charismatic old buildings. Palamos is no exception and we wander around a pedestrianised area taking in the early evening buzz as people finish work and pick up their groceries on the way home. There are enough people going about their business to lend a sense of normality in these strained times, with only the prevalence of face masks and hand sanitiser a reminder of the bigger picture.
North-south streets are in shadow while east-west streets are ablaze with dazzling low sunlight. In fact we don’t even attempt to walk west on account of not being able to see anything. Fortunately there are delis in all directions and we feel duty bound to pick up all sorts of goodies in one of them. It is becoming clear that Catalans appreciate good quality produce. Did I mention the cake shop? Did I need to?
By the time we leave Palamos I’ve adjusted my view of the town. It has plenty of charm and character to offset the excessive beachfront construction that looms over the beach. We drive home with minds full of sun and scenery. This evening will involve doing something exciting with fish. It’s hard to imagine that we have several weeks ahead of us in this bubble of adventure. Will we tire of exploration? Will the fish run out? Will our exercise outweigh the calorific destruction that is sure to follow us home every week? I’m pretty confident I know the answer to the first 2 questions.