Friends. The One in Catalonia

“I should have known it would be like this,” I muttered, navigating the intricacies of Barcelona’s labyrinthine Barri Gòtic with eight of my friends. Stop. Start. Coffee. Toilet. Beer. Toilet. Small dog. Beer. Hat shop. Brightly coloured balloon. It was like trying to herd tipsy cats.

At times, all I wanted to do was break free. But I persevered. Friends are important and this trip wasn’t just about me. You know how it is. Anyway, soon we had a rhythm, separating and reconvening, which seemed to suit everyone else too.

I decided to get some breakfast. Although it’s right in the heart of the tacky tourist honeypot that is Las Ramblas, Barcelona’s central indoor market La Boqueria is Narnia for those who want to be completely immersed in nature’s bounty. The displays are carnal scenes of brightly coloured exotic fruits and vegetables, succulent moist carcasses from land and sea, flesh and shell, writhing and splayed.

It wasn’t cheap, but then again, ten things had died for my pleasure

I grabbed an empty stool at Bar Central, a popular seafood counter in one corner of this enormous covered gastro-brothel. Oysters, giant red shrimps and beer – now one of my top two ways to start the day – is a succulent but messy business. I wiped all the shells and legs off my chops and paid the man. It wasn’t cheap, but then again, ten things had died for my pleasure. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was smoke and get the hell out. So I did.

By my third day in Barcelona, I’d found an eclectic mix of bars and cafés to get refreshed. Mesón Del Café is a time capsule, tucked into a row of gift shops; blink and you’ll miss this authentic family-run café bar whose current, amiable proprietor, now well into his sixties, started working for his own father there as a 15 year-old. Its original dark wooden interior, all cuckoo clocks and ornamental glass grapes, is a cosy nook to hide from the rabble. Coffee with condensed milk and Spanish brandy is offered as a pick-me-up (or nerve-steadier) before you lunch on traditional Catalan dishes. Blood sausage anyone?

And as lovely and exciting as it all is, those twisting narrow walls start to close in, particularly in summer’s windless 32 degrees. The streets were humming, the still humid air clung to my skin. I was weary of schlepping about with a discordant rabble of pals (valuable though they are, etc.). Still, determined to keep the dream alive, we entered the red light district in search of the famous Marsella absinthe bar.

Hemingway (shock horror!) used to frequent this cobwebbed den. Perhaps a good measure of something green and potent could save the day? Er, no. It was closed.

I could see the light fading from my companions’ eyes. A woman was leaning against the graffiti’d shutters. She smiled and then winked at me. She looked friendly, I thought – then I remembered where we were.

We trundled past the other prostitutes, mobile phone accessory shops and guys peddling cold cans of lager

We trundled past the other prostitutes, mobile phone accessory shops and guys peddling cold cans of lager, back to the tasteless din of Las Ramblas. Huge fluorescent mountains of sculpted ice cream were now lining each side of the strip, along with an Asian man selling some kind of device that makes your voice sound squeaky. It was turning weird, and we’d all had enough of this circus, so we left.

Thankfully, we’d planned a trip up the coast to stay at a friend’s beach house in the seaside village of Port De La Selva. Sea air and pretty beaches – yes, please.

Apparently the house had been used as a location for films of an adult nature, but I was assured it was lovely. We arrived at night and ran like children around the gigantic modern interior, bagsying bedrooms (or couches – there were more guests than beds) and rummaging through cupboards and fridges. The house was very Scarface. All that was missing was the caged tiger and the silver tray heaped with cocaine.

Port De La Selva is a beautifully quiet fishing village in the belly of a large cove. White walls and terracotta rooftops hug the curved beach and small marina, spilling back into the valley. I set off early down the footpath from the house and sat alone on a bench watching fishermen bring in the morning catch. An elderly gentleman delicately dabbed watercolours, while a young family enjoyed breakfast in the little harbour café.

Some guys with textbook Spanish dreadlock mullets puffed on strong marijuana, while we supped on ice cold beer

We all met up at a rudimentary beach bar slightly away from the main village above Platja Del Pas. The young bar staff were attractive hippie types; a Charles Mingus number was on the sound system. Some guys with textbook Spanish dreadlock mullets puffed on strong marijuana, while we supped on ice cold beer in the shade of the hibiscus bushes. This, most definitely, was not the city.

Next time out, we ventured further along the coast to Cadaqués, a breathtaking town, all uneven cobbled streets, secret beaches and dreamscapes. Colourful birds were busying themselves in the trees and beautiful, semi-clad humans lolled on the rocks and ledges of the central beach. We installed ourselves on a nearby terrace, where the waitress proved very swift at replacing my frozen daiquiri any time I finished one. The day grew slightly fuzzy as I looked from the faces of my friends, napping on the beach, to the cooling sea mist creeping over the distant peninsula. It all felt a million miles from the crushing intensity of Barcelona, Paris or London. Like Port De La Salva, Cadaqués is cocooned in a large protective cove: I felt the bay’s giant arms hugging the town, and us, keeping us all safe from the world outside. C

Matthew Davies runs Brighton’s best little pub, the Hand in Hand, and is also a musician