When Roses are Thorns

• Tweet

Roses, the Patron Saint of Last Resort

“I’m sorry,” said the dark-eyed receptionist. “We’re full. You find place, you must take it.” He sucked air through his teeth and shook his head. “Otherwise your only hope is Roses.”

After the nth time I heard this response, I decided two things. First, to never, ever travel without reservations on a May Bank holiday ever again. And second, to give up and get it over with. I would leave ocean-blue, perfect Cadaqués and face up to this Roses place, the patron saint of the last resort.

Braced for doom, after a 20 minute drive through olive groves and poppy-flecked grass, we entered Roses and looked around.

Clearly, Catalunya takes itself for granted. Roses may well have replaced Cadaqués’ groomed boutiques and painted shutters with the odd high-rise building and tarmac road, but it was hardly a dive.

Two walkways stretched into the glimmering Med and on the shore a little girl dipped her toes into the wet sand. Cafés and bars covered the pavements, whose purpose seemed to be hosting chattering diners and drinkers rather than providing a conduit for travel.

Behind the disorderly streets, jagged green-cloaked mountains formed a backdrop and through the film of haze, the snowy mountains of the Pyrenees appeared.

Some things challenged my optimism, however. I flicked through the laminated menus of photographed food, barely a metre away from traffic and surrounded by loud-mouthed Brits. Perhaps I could understand why we’d been warned away.

But then Café L’Escàlam served up the best truita, or Spanish omelette, I have ever tasted – fresh and warm with an oozing filling – followed up by expertly crisped xipirons, or baby squids.

Later, in the hot Caliente bar, the night air became feverish. Barcelona – Catalunya’s Capital – defeated arch-rivals Real-Madrid 6-2 and triumphant, young faces were out to celebrate: serenading bars and restaurants and hanging out of speeding cars, unfurling maroon-blue banners and scarves.

The next morning, the pavements were deserted, the bars and restaurants boarded up. Only tourists and workers get up before midday.

We left our hotel (some 200 euros better off than if we’d taken the last room in Cadaqués) and took one last walk along the seafront. Sunshine, palm trees and stretches of empty sand.

I must remember not to make reservations more often.

INFO: