Crossing the border to spain, learning the coast

Crossing the border to spain, learning the coast

olaf
Beach, City, Mountains, Museum, Roadtrip
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Crossing into Spain didn’t come with a dramatic shift, but the tone changed quickly. The first coastal towns along the Costa Brava were unmistakably tourist-oriented: promenades, compact beaches, everything arranged for short stays and long summers. It didn’t bother us. We were passing through, not checking in.

Near La Selva de Mar, we touched the Mediterranean for the first time. Very salty. As advertised. A small but necessary ritual. Shortly after, a minor navigation error, nothing serious, just optimistic interpretation of road signs, sent us climbing up to about 500 meters above sea level, where the Sant Pere de Rodes suddenly appeared. Massive, calm, and entirely unimpressed by our arrival. The view justified the detour.

From there we continued to Cadaqués, the town forever linked to Salvador Dalí. Unlike many places along the coast, Cadaqués has kept its face. It still feels like a fishing village rather than a hotel complex pretending to be one. That may be exactly why it attracts so many day visitors. We stayed just long enough for food, fresh seafood, properly done. Gambas à la plancha for me. No regrets, no notes.

Instead of staying, we drove back toward La Selva de Mar and the campsite. It felt quieter, more appropriate for the pace we were aiming for.

The next day was dedicated to Dalí properly. In Figueres, we joined a surprisingly efficient small-scale human surge into the Dalí Theatre-Museum. Twelve euros, fifteen minutes of waiting, and suddenly we were inside a world of meticulous absurdity. Grotesque details, beautiful moments, occasionally uncomfortable ideas, unapologetically strange sculptures, paintings, sketches. Entire rooms staged as if logic had been invited but deliberately ignored. The building itself, an egg, a dome, theatrical confidence throughout, answered the question “why?” with a clear “why not.”

Leaving Figueres, we passed through small towns and narrow streets that felt paused. End of September does that. Out of season, everything opens up by closing down. Accommodations everywhere, people almost nowhere. The larger town we reached later felt oversized and underpopulated, perfect for a night without a tent. We looked around for camping options anyway, out of habit more than necessity, but there was nothing that made sense. So we stayed put.

Dinner came from our provision box. Simple, efficient. We walked to the river mouth where it met the sea and watched the sun set behind layers of clouds, more cloud than sky, but enough light to make it worthwhile. The sound of the water did the rest. We slept there.

Later, people appeared with headlamps, searching the beach for reasons we didn’t need to know. Anglers took their positions and waited for the night to deliver something. We stayed where we were, listening, letting the coast do what it does best when summer has already moved on.