The hotel: “I’m not sure I’m ready for the Costa Brava,” said my wife.
She was thinking of the Staggering Daves, the Shazzers and the tequila
boom-booms at 80p a throw that have forged the costa’s image.
“My precious,” I said, “it is off-season. The Daves and Shazzers are safely at
home right now. Furthermore, there’s nothing wrong with Daves and Shazzers.
They include some of my dearest friends.
“And anyway, the Costa Brava is long and varied. We are not going to go where
the Daves and Shazzers go.”
So she stopped quibbling and came with me to the Hotel Llafranch, in Llafranc.
Three days on, I could barely get her home again. “Just six months more.
Okay, five,” she cried, as I bundled her into the lift and out across the
lobby.
Llafranc rarely fails. How could it? It’s on that serrated section of the
Costa Brava a time-warp away from Lloret and Tossa de Mar, God bless ’em.
Slotted into a Catalan cove from central casting (curving bay, big sky,
looming headlands, circling hills), the village has segued from fishing to
leisure without ceding to lunacy. Streets remain white, tight and aromatic
with cooking smells. Nothing rivals the church tower on the skyline.
The place still runs to local rhythms, now buffed up with a patina of
civilised hospitality. I shared this thought with my wife. She was sipping a
cava on our sea-view balcony. “Buffed up with a what?” she said. “Fill my
glass, please.” Which rather proved my point.
The Hotel Llafranch, especially, is good at that. It’s good at most things.
White, light and quite stately by the bay, it has seaside panache with
roots. Elizabeth Taylor and Kirk Douglas passed through in the days when the
Costa Brava was exotic and impossibly distant. The parties were legendary.
Or, as the hotel itself puts it, “its famosity was reaching superior levels”.
The famosity hasn’t noticeably declined. Hollywood heirs could still turn up,
to mix with zippier elements in from Barcelona for the weekend, my wife and
I and a barful of villagers loudly putting the world – or, at least, the
village – to rights. It’s a brilliant mix, with boisterousness still
bubbling below the surface, in the Catalan manner. I still don’t quite know
how the conga got started after dinner on the Saturday.
But the essence, off-season, is calm. We took long walks along the beach, past
other hotels and restaurants shut for winter, then up and round the headland
to Calella de Palafrugell next door, then back to our hotel terrace. The sun
raised the spirits, and a bit more cava helped. We took a lively, even
neighbourly, interest in the few other people about, and a proprietorial
attitude to the whole glorious scene.
My wife felt she was where she was meant to be – “at last”, she said, with
more force than I thought necessary. The Llafranch is an extension of the
seafront by more sophisticated means. It’s airy, open, with just as much
luxury as you need but no superfluous nonsense. The same family has run it
for 50 years and knows how to make you feel you belong, without tipping over
into mateyness. The whole thing’s a damned nuisance if you ever want your
wife to be happy at home again.
The rooms: plain white walls and proper wood where it should be, these
are rooms to make you think it’s summer even when it’s not. With a little
lounge area beyond the bedroom, there’s ample space in which to lose your
jacket for a moment or two. (“It’s on the sofa, halfwit.”) The bathrooms are
contemporary – devoid of the traditional Spanish plumbing clank and with all
the bits and bobs in a basket we now require. The clincher, though, is the
balcony. Sitting there as the young, early-year sun lights up village and
sea, you will conclude that you must be pretty special to have deserved all
this. You will, of course, be right.
The food: you’re in Catalonia by the sea, so it’s fish – on the terrace
if it’s warm enough, in the glassed-in bit behind if it’s not. Splendid fish
it is too, served by bright-eyed staff confident that what they’re bringing
is worth their while.
Suquet (fish casserole), perhaps with black rice, is a speciality,
though I was just as happy with the lobster’n’clam soup. Baby octopus and txipirones
(baby squid) will please those who like their meals with a tentacle or two,
while cod balls might surprise those who didn’t know that cod had... Okay. I
know. Pathetic.
If fish isn’t your thing, go for rack of lamb – and then puds homemade by
Adelita, nicely billed as “mother of the house”. Think £25-£30pp for dinner.
Then think yourselves lucky.
The surroundings: this is among the loveliest coastlines in Spain – tree-clad
rocks dropping to white villages and blue sea, all dazzling in unambiguous
light. There’s an easy walk to Calella de Palafrugell, a stiffer one over
the headland to Tamariu. Car drivers might push on to equally spectacular
spots like Aiguafreda and Sa Riera.
Inland, you could take in ancient villages of markets and melancholy music by
night – places such as Pals, Peratallada and Monells. Pubol has the castle
that Dali bought for his wife, Gala.
But don’t plan too much. Llafranc is, I reckon, the jewel of the district.
People pay fortunes for the villas hidden amid the woodland on the slopes.
If they’re all going there, it would be daft for you to leave too often,
especially when you’ve only got a day or two. That’s what your wife will
say, anyway. And if she doesn’t, mine will. Give her a ring.
Travel brief: Hotel Llafranch, Passeig Cypsela 16, Llafranc (00 34 972
300208, www. hllafranch.com; B&B
doubles from £59). Go for those facing outward, for better views – from £75
in low season (to May 31). Girona’s airport is 33 miles away; fly with
Ryanair (0871 246 0000, www.ryanair.com)
from Stansted, Luton, 12 UK regional airports, plus Dublin and Shannon.
Hertz, via Ryanair, has cars for three days from £41.
