A confession. I can be delusional. If you’d tapped me on the arm as we set off
as a family of six for the Costa Brava and asked what I was doing, I would
have told you I was on a quest to discover the Spain only the Spanish
themselves knew.
There would have been a little truth in this. A Spanish friend had fed me
memories of her childhood spent camping near the sea among the great
stretches of pine woods around Cadaques; of a coastline dotted with ancient
villages, coves and harbours, not high-rises.
I had a list of towns where locals danced in the squares; of secret casinos –
not the gambling variety – where Catalans went for good food at low prices.
In making this claim, however, I was giving in to the temptation to make a
well-established holiday destination, and myself, sound more mysterious than
either it or I really am.
So, having confessed, let’s get to the truth. I was really on a quest to
discover the Spain a million tourists have visited and loved before me.
What’s wrong with that?
There were plenty of Spaniards doing their own thing, for sure, but there were
many Brits, French and Germans, too, all enjoying Spain’s wealthiest costa –
its old towns and thriving nighttime markets, its lovely beaches, its
invitation to idleness. Or to be as idle as you can with four children –
aged between 10 and 17 – and the arrival of a brother and sister-in-law,
newly settled and working in Spain, and their three children aged between 3
and 11.
You need specific equipment to survive in these circumstances. Recommended: a
pool, water wings, so nobody drowns when you’re not looking, and a big car,
hired at the airport and perfect for throwing wet little bodies into and
taking off along winding hillside roads. You should also have a plan to get
rid of the 17-year-old, who is going to find having her tan time interrupted
by younger siblings “proper silly”, and has been hyperventilating since
discovering that there’s no Ibiza-style partying on the Costa Brava.
This is where the niche holiday came into its own, many miles from where we
were. She was allowed to bring a friend and fly off to Mallorca from Girona
airport, to do unthinkable things in Magaluf. At least, that was the plan.
More of that later.
For the moment, picture the peaceful scene: the pool, a dining table under a
wicker awning, an endless view across pine forest and, circling around high
above us, flashes of extraordinary birdlife: hoopoes, bee-eaters, hawks and
buzzards.
Our villa had a large family room-cum-kitchen with a table that could
accommodate the remaining 10 of us with room to spare. We nestled between
the lovely medieval town of Pals, perched high over former marshland, with
pretty cobbled streets, a castle and a fine 8th-century church, and the long
bay of Pals, a beach perfect for playful children – just be careful of the
jellyfish. (One of ours did get stung, but a good first-aid station soon
made her feel better.) Beware the pedalos, too. Brother-in-law became
seasick on one. He claimed it was choppy out there, though quite how he
found himself in a turbulent microclimate when all around was sleepy
stillness remains a mystery.
The coast had its own delights: we sat for hours at the tables outside the
Hotel Llevant in Llafranc, watching the world go by, a rather genteel world
more suited to the French Riviera of 30 years ago. Nearby, the French
influence was also apparent in the seaside town of Tamariu, a delightful
cove with a fine, pebbly beach. Our first visit there had been at that
awkward time of day when the children were hungry, but the prospect of
feeding all of them in the rather fine restaurants along the front appeared
prohibitively expensive. Confident that children are never a problem for the
Spanish, we ordered drinks and a few snacks at the Restaurant Redondo, on
the curve of the bay, thinking we’d eat at home – but were made all too
aware by a rude waiter, as he flung plates before us, that our intention not
to stay for a three-course meal wasn’t welcome.
He was so hostile, we nearly didn’t go back to the town, but when we did find
ourselves there again, we were glad we had returned. Our next visit saw the
quiet beachfront transformed, with a live local band playing a Catalan/Cuban
fusion as dusk fell.
At the Hotel Tamariu, we were made welcome and sat happily all evening, the
children coming and going along the seafront, even bringing fresh little
delicacies to our table from local stalls without the waiter having a heart
attack.
There were other memorable evenings. Sitting in the hillside town of Begur, at
a cafe overlooking its central fortress, the cobbled streets packed with
chichi market stalls selling handcrafted baubles. And, when we’d run out of
time and money, dashing off to one of the many local rotisseries, cheap
chicken-and-chips joints packed with locals, particularly on a Sunday, for a
hearty Catalan fast-food treat.
We went further afield, too. Off the road leading to Girona and the airport,
hidden in a tiny walled town surrounded by fertile fields, is a little
jewel. Elegant despite its innate oddity, a little suburban, even, is the
bijou castellated home Salvador Dali bought for his wife, Gala – the
Casa-Museo Castillo Gala Dali de Pubol. She repaid this devotion by
insisting, to his delight, that he could visit her only by written
invitation, and went on to entertain her lovers there, and cater to his
masochistic tastes, into her seventies. She is buried in the mausoleum
beneath this wonderfully intimate home. Dali kept his distance even in death
– he is buried elsewhere.
Pubol also proved to be a good stop-off point en route to retrieving the
errant 17-year-old. Remember her? She and friend fell out big time in
nonstop party land, so she had to be picked up, having made her own way back
by plane and train from Mallorca to Flaca, a shortish drive from Pals. So
delirious with gratitude was she for this rescue, something miraculous
happened: she started enjoying the peace and the family as much as we were.
Trains are good in Spain. From the station at Flaca, we left the coast to
journey to Barcelona, but hadn’t understood that sometimes there aren’t
trains back to the town in the evening, despite the timetable indicating
otherwise. Late at night on a platform, when your temper is fraying, it’s
hot and your Spanish is poor, this isn’t good. We had to get a train to
somewhere dark, then cabs through the night back to where our car was
parked, in order to get home. By then, though, we’d experienced Gaudi’s
Barcelona, enjoyed a wonderful meal in a baroque square, watched street
dancing and had a taste of city life before returning to the calm of the
costa.
Ah, the Costa Brava. The quest didn’t result in a discovery of a Spain only
the Spanish knew, because what it has to offer is already much appreciated
outside Spain. Like the Spanish, the French and everyone else, we’ll be
going back.
— Cathy Galvin was a guest of PCI Holidays (0845 130 1440, www.pci-holidays.com),
which has a week at Casa Milly, a villa sleeping up to eight, with a private
pool, from £915, villa-only. Or try Vintage Travel (0845 344 0460, www.vintagetravel.co.uk)
or Holiday Lettings (01865 312000, www.holidaylettings.co.uk).
Ryanair (www.ryanair.com) flies to Girona
from 14 UK airports, as well as Dublin and Shannon. Airlines flying to
Barcelona include EasyJet (www.easyjet.com),
BMI Baby (0871 224 0224, www.bmibaby.com)
and British Airways (0844 493 0787, www.ba.com)
