Something’s changed. The cliffs are higher, deeper, and covered with tight evergreens. There’s water here, though the ground is still dusty hard. The swallowtail butterflies follow us, tame and landing repeatedly in the same places as if inviting a closer examination. The Costa Brava, or "wild coast" runs for 200 kilometres from Blanes, north of Barcelona, to the region of Emporda, which borders France. From high on the coastal road we teeter on precipitous drops – pine-backed sandy coves of sailboats and jetskiers and paradise-seekers. Between Lloret de Mar, through Tossa to Sant Feliu there’s an intestinal series of switchbacks high above the golden beaches. Tossa, one of the busiest resorts, is a corniche of perfect waves and sand with a skirt of villas and fresh highrises, topped by a Roman settlement and fortified medieval village. Further north the coast sticks out into a small peninsula accessible only by a twisting secondary road. At the head of the bay is the town of Roses, with the longest beach on the coast and a labyrinth of narrow streets packed with shops and cafes. A record shop sells us Leonard Cohen for 500 pesetas. A steep road through the middle of the peninsula takes us to the most easterly point in the country. Cadaques was dubbed the "St.Tropez of Spain" in the 1960’s because of the young crowd hanging around here, soaking up the same sea breeze ingested by Salvador Dali only a few decades ago (Dali was born and dies in the nearby inland city of Figueres). At the campground there’s a sign on the door: Absolutely no drums. It’s full, and the town itself is crawling at a snail’s pace of French and Catalan youth and family holidaymakers. It’s the kind of place – pretty with whitewashed houses, a narrow cove and compact village-beach – that would be perfect in the off-season.

Seville