Travel Guide   |   Barcelona   |   Spain

When did Barcelona become the victim of its own popularity?

Text   |   Anninka Kraus
Photography   |   Tobias Kraus

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Spain Catalonia

After our trip to the Pyrenees to go hiking, we arrived in Barcelona in the late afternoon with little time left before sunset, and as this was our first time visit to Barcelona we ventured downtown and joined the massive tourist stream swashing up and down the Ramblas, a pedestrian boulevard lined by souvenir kiosks and black Africans selling fake LV clutches more numerous than trees.

 

Stretching 1.2 kilometers from the city centre to the sea, connecting the Plaça de Catalunya at the top with the Christopher Columbus Monument below at Port Vell, the Ramblas seperates the Barri Gòtic in the north-east from El Raval in the south-west.

 

A stream of sunburnt shoulders, hotpants, and flipflops surged across the pavement in harmony with its wavy lines symbolizing the less glamorous „shitstream“ past of the boulevard – a riverbed turned rubbish dump, full of sewage sloshing down this very path, that was eventually diverted outside the city walls in the 15th century.

 

The boulevard La Ramba (or Las Ramblas as it is commonly known since it can be considered a succession of shorter streets) is 100% tourist-orientated and today was heavily crowded and hectic as would be expected in August. The only locals were the shop keepers. Of the more than 9 million overnight visitors per year, it was young European Erasmus students, Asian coach tour groups and Russians that seemed most present at this particular time.

 

Plastic-coated picture menus in 15 languages screamed out at us every few steps and waiters called out, ‚Table for three’, pointing at us with three fingers, and randomlingly adding the stranger next to me to the threesome. Who on earth are those people that look at stand-up displays depicting the most awful looking dishes, sit down at grubby tables because Sangria is served in 1 liter beer mugs, and then complain about soggy paella, fatty potato chunks drowned in cocktail sauce, and harrassed-looking staff on tripadvisor? There must be many because all tables were taken.

 

I’ve been in marketing for a decade, so please believe me that stand-up displays hold little promise per se, especially those that seem to have been used as a battering ram to ward off disgruntled guests, and the appearance and quality of the food served is never anything like that depicted, and in fact noticeably worse.

 

The same goes for plastic-coated menus that play stopover for tummy bugs, and advertise overpriced meals for the most dreadful quality. I’m not entirely sure what characteristics personify a local Barcelonian, but I’m quite sure there were none among the camera and backpack equipped tourist crowds carrying travel books, and waving mobile phones on self-sticks along the Ramblas.

 

La Boqueria, a colourful, noisy public market with an entrance off the Ramblas one third down from Plaça de Catalunya, is firmly in hand of bodies shoving between fruit laden stalls, fishmongers and tourists squashed on barstools around small eateries. Most young girls carried a plastic cup, sucking garishly colourful liquid through straws, which is supposedly fruit juice but I have yet to discover any fruit of that colour.

 

The stuffy heat carried with it the smell of Asia – spicy fried food and rotten durian, which blended with the stench of a suffocating seabreeze carried in from the coast – sunbaked mussels and seaweed exposed by the low tide, the closer we came to the fish with cloudy eyes and gaping mouth.

 

It started to drizzle on the 1914 metal roof that covers the market, soaking the caked grime on the cobblestone into slippery black sludge. We left the market and made our way through the narrow streets of the Gothic quarter, encompassing the oldest parts of Barcelona and the remains of the Roman city walls, holding hands so we did not lose each other. ‚This is what clogged arteries must look like,’ I thought to myself, ‚just before a cardiac arrest.’

 

This old quarter’s tangle of narrow medieval streets, Gothic heritage of Catalonia’s glamerous epoque would be astoundingly beautiful, were it not for the overwhelming misproportion of tourist-focused eateries, souvenir shops and hawkers.

 

Knowing it would be packed, I tried to book a table for dinner without specifying the time. ‚Sorry no, fully booked, unfortunately,’ was the first reply to most of my requests, and upon enquiring for alternative dates for dinner at eight o’clock, I received a puzzled reply. ‚You want to come at eight?’ Obviously that was painfully early not just for Italians.

 

I felt like my 80 year old grandma, rushing to dinner at the retirement home’s cafeteria at 5:30 with her walker, afraid of a two minute delay down the linoleum covered hallway, but outed myself an early eater anyway. The small embarrassement paid off, for he replied, ‚Ok, no problem then, but you can only stay until 10. We’re fully booked after that.’

jump ahead.
Gaudi, the Ramblas, and a photography tour

Exploring Barcelona

I booked a highly recommended restaurant, which fell somewhat short of our high expectations. Patatas Bravas Viana style, Burrata, pink tuna dices and a full plate of marbled jamón ibérico were delicious, but crowded on a tiny table a hand’s breadth from the next and smothered in hot, stuffy kitchen exhaust (the exhaust hood and/or aircon were broken, likely both), overstrained service and the noise level of a bar. That being said, the food was excellent and we’d be back on a quiet day, if such implosibility exists, in winter.


We fled before dessert, sweaty and smelling of other guests’ ribeye, and caught up on dessert at Artisa, a stone’s throw from Viana. Gelato in hand, we sauntered down to the waterfront and on Rambla de Mar had to tiptoe and shuffle around blankets on which North African hawkers were selling cheap trash. Halfway onto the wooden pier leading to the Maremagnum Shoppingmall, I was so fed up, being forced to wade through fake Vuitton caps, equally fake Raybans and minions dancing to pop (I was quite fascinated by these tiny puppets really as I still have no idea how they moved a few centimetres above the ground and without visible strings attached) that I struggled to appreciate the beauty of the lights dancing on the water in harmony with the sway of the yachts.


We fled once more, sidestepping blankets, sharp elbows and blaring stereos all the way back to the Edifici Port de Barcleona and turned right onto Moll de Bosch i Alsina. It took us only a minute or two to leave the turmoil behind, and I was amazed by how few people were willing to venture these few steps farther. Sparkling lights from the harbour reflected in narrow beams on the water and the street lamps above illuminated the palms throwing iconic shadows on the promenade at regular intervals. We were able to stargaze despite the halo of light pollution, and the only sound disrupting the muted background babble of the ever busy city was dance music coming from a stereo.


If someone would ask me what I like best about Southern Europeans, it’s their love for dancing at night in public spaces. 

North of the tapas and pizza equator we’re too dull, self-conscious and simply unable to move with this much confidence, talent and enthusiasm. The fast Salsa and Bachata rhythms were galloping to catch up with the endless swings and swirls of the dancers turning so fast I didn’t need a camera to visualise motion blur. My expectations had been skyrocket-high, and Barcelona did not deliver on that first day, not by far. I also felt that we were aggravating the problem of this tourist-overload by adding two more bodies – us – to the crowd.


The next day we explored La Ribera and El Born and by the end of day two, another pistachio gelato in hand, and more street-wise in avoiding the crowds, the sunbaked walls oozed some of the famous Barcelona-vibes. The same laid-back Southern-European atmosphere that you’d also find in Italy, only a little younger maybe, and more metropolitan. But not until an early morning run on day three, and only after I passed the two dozen intoxicated youngsters littering Carrer de Balmes, and an ambulance administering aid, diagonally parked across the footpath, did Barcelona reveal much of what I’d missed so far.

While I’m on the subject of littering: to read that tourists pee in the streets (who the hell does that?) and leave piles of rubbish is revolting. But apparently this is not an isolated Barcelona phenomenon, and unfortunately not even isolated to big tourist cities. I very well remember my Mum’s lengthy rant about freedom campers in New Zealand. Who the hell, and I apologise for the necessary swear words, poops just outside somebody’s front yard in a residential area? Her friend dances around telltale heaps on tiptoes, hastily covered with toilet paper, in her garden on most mornings.


As I raced down the chewing gum dotted wavy lines on the Ramblas at 7:30 on a weekday morning, there was so much beauty in the normally suffocating boulevard. Then to top the treat to the early-morning Ramblas, I fell in love with the metropole’s outstanding waterfront promenade, a runners’ paradise. Still pondering the hidden agenda of the headless fish at breakfast, I discovered the amazing croissants aux amandes at Crusto, a little bakery around the corner on Calle Valencia, that became our breakfast joint for four days running. I gave up on the fish, instead wondering whether I’d found culinary traces of Catalonia’s decade as a republic under French sovereignty during the Franco-Spanish war in the 17th century.


I had asked my friend, a former Erasmus student in San Sebastian and repeat visitor to Barcelona for the one highlight that in her opinion best embodies Barcelona’s distinctiveness. ‚Gaudi,’ she answered, referring to the Catalan architect and his exceptionally creative and eclectic works. Thus we walked through Eixample’s neat street grid and pointed our cameras, with countless others, at buildings of unusual organic shapes, curved stonework with stained glass, mosaic tiles, and wrought-iron balconies. All of them very colourful and unique, and unlike any building I’d seen so far, but I was not much enthused by this most unusual style of architecture. The only Gaudi building I’d be tempted to see again is the Sagrada Familia. The epitome of uniqueness and non-compliance, I thought it rather messy and bizarre on the outside. Particularly as with ongoing construction yellow cranes pointed in all directions and scaffolds encircled unfinished towers.


George Orwell called it, ‚one of the most hideous buildings in the world’. I wouldn’t, for inside it was the most beautiful church I have ever seen. I’m an atheist and (maybe wrongfully) imagine a church should be welcoming, full of colour and light, breathing cheerfulness and modesty. Sagrada Familia was the first church that embodied this belief, except for its lack of humility. The grandeur and the altar crucifix seemed to be the only concessions to traditional churches. At least they put a floating canopy above the latter, decorated with grapes and vines and what appeared to be fairylights, but I have yet to understand a religion’s obsession with showcasing a slain corpse on a cross instead of happiness and joy. It seems macabre to me.


Towards the end of our 30.000 steps today I was cursing whoever thought of cutting street corners (Xamfràns) in Eixample. That inconsiderate certain somebody obviously thought it okay to punish health and environmentally conscious goody two-shoes to facilitate the turning and parking of environmental sin, slash wonderfully useful cars. Wanting to improve our photography skills we booked a tour with Nico on day four. From Buenos Aires and Barcelonian by choice, Nico has lived in El Born for many years. He is a journalist and photographer specialising in documentaries, and has worked all over the world, mostly within his profession, but also including a hands-on stint making the popular Vermicelles desert in Switzerland. Vermicelles is a chestnut puree that looks like a heap of sandworm poop, and as to its taste I’d rather not comment.


We followed Nico for six hours and captured the Boqueria, Raval and El Born concentrating on lighting, colour, ISO and exposure time. Waiting for a dark haired lady in a speckled white apron to lean into the pool of light illuminating piles of dead fish from above, I asked Nico how he photographed individual people. Not from a technical viewpoint, but more regarding the ethical issue. I liked his practical approach. Nico said that most people do not mind, and using common sense works in other situation such as eye contact and avoiding people that may consider photography a privacy invasion. Identifying the latter obviously requires some more experience, which I lack, seeing that the next day at Boqueria, the saleslady at one of the meat stalls nearly leapt over the depleted counter, as I tried to capture the bloody redness of the few remaining chunks of dead meat in white plastic trays.


Several sources warned us about Raval, west of the Ramblas, being more dangerous for tourists and a notorious red-light district. We cannot confirm anything of the kind (until 11pm at least and there were some sexshops) and it’s Nico’s favourite barrio so we went there next. It is less polished, and there is great cultural diversity, even by Barcelonian standards. Fewer tourists, tiny craft shops, outrageous street skating on and around one long ledge in front of the MACBA, colourful streetart, and a misshapen fat cat on Rambla del Raval add colour and life to this quarter. Evidently I’m no fan of Fernando Botero.

Next we visited one of Barcelona’s many community gardens, the Hort del Xino, and I found myself staring at a wall painting depicting a giant angry tree. Its roots were pictured as a pumping red heart that was being ripped out of the ground and tilted a chessboard towards capitalism and tourism, sending the chess pieces flying. It offered bitter opposition to McDonald’s golden arches, that as so often symbolised capitalism and the death of all that is good, and the bleeding heart on the I love Barcelona cup that personified mass tourism.


Thankfully I never bought one of those cups. Deliberate, colourful and defiant disorder had successfully seized a demolished building lot, and the dirt square with its veggie plots, mismatching metal and plastic chairs on which a handful of people passed time in the midst of politically motivated graffiti on surrounding walls reminded me of Kreuzberg, Berlin. After only spending a few days in the city, I could not fathom how much pent-up anger must be simmering just beneath its superficial surface. There were many signs asking tourists to leave, impossible to overlook, and anti-tourism protests lately made the news, but here, in the community garden the frustration was more tangible and personal.


We retreated to a shady spot just outside the garden and I broached the obvious. Nico explained to us that within the last few years his rent in El Born had doubled. He told us, «In Argentina people in the pub talk about politics. In Barcelona they always talk about tourism.» Four years ago, when he moved into here, his apartment was in a block of eight, one of which was an Airbnb flat. Now it boasts five Airbnb flats, and rents have skyrocketed forcing many locals to leave the city centre and move into surrounding barrios. This has diminished the population in the Ciutat Vella, the old quarter, which explained my impression on our first day in Barcelona, wandering down the Rambla, and not seeing a single local.


I told Nico I felt bad about contributing to the cause of so much tension, but quite the hypocrite admitted that I still wanted to come back here many times. He reassured me that as long as we did not join those tourists impressing with excessive noise, heavy drinking and vulgarity we were tolerated. While I was somewhat relieved, I held little hope that the rest of the population, and especially those not working in the industry, were of the same opinion. Admittedly what else could he have said to clients.


For our last exercise on the tour, we sat on pebble stones in the Plaça de Sant Felip Neri, photographing the illuminated bullet scarred church walls that looked like pockmarks on fair skin. We were alone but for a guitar player’s unobtrusive melody and the hushed voices of some diners outside a small restaurant opposite the Església de Sant Felip Neri, and surrounded by limestone walls that reflected the yellowish glow under the dark night sky. The tranquil atmosphere in this beautiful square right inside the Gothic quarter stood in stark contrast to the lasting reminder of two bombs dropped by Francos troops in 1938. We said good bye to Nico, and famished went back to Ziryab, a tiny tapas bar on Carrer dels Ases that adds spicy flavours of the Middle East into traditional Catalonian dishes. At 11pm, just like the locals.


„Do you think Parc Güell is worth visiting?“ I asked Nico at some point during the tour and received a very definite „No. Too touristy“. And yet this is where we ended up the next day because our guide book implored us to. Apart from the tourist onslaught in Park Güell, I liked Gràcia best of all barrios. The district preserves its little local village feel, and seems unperturbed by the vibrant metropolis surrounding its narrow streets, some pedestrian-only. Independent art galleries, alternative little businesses and restaurants and leafy squares made up for big chain stores and umbrella fanatical tour guides, and an even higher number of Catalan flags, La Senyera Estelada, was suspended from balconies than in other parts of the city. They declared independence next to flowering pot plants and added colour and a certain cheerfulness that betrayed their serious message.


Apart from Park Güell we strolled to elevated viewpoints twice for scenic panoramas. Seen from Montjuic, the city sprawled at our feet in bright, unrelenting sunshine. From Bunker del Carmel, it was slowly swallowed up in darkness after a colourful sunset and picnic dinner. I expected both viewpoints to be less crowded than they were but I’d still revisit either of them for their incredible views.


We loved Barcelona despite the controversial and very evident tourism issue and returned home with the sincere wish to come back. Then two weeks later terrorists killed 14 people in an attack on the Ramblas. I contacted Nico to ask if he was well. His email read: I was next to La Rambla when it happened. I was waiting for a client that never appeared (luckily), and then boom, people started to scream and run towards me. I reacted instantly and as a photojournalist I tried to work in that situation anyway. He had been so close when some utterly misguided bastards in a white van ploughed through the Ramblas. We had been all unsuspecting, two weeks earlier happily strolling along on a photography tour.


Will that diminish Barcelona’s appeal to tourists and decrease their numbers? I think not. Few big European cities have been spared from attacks, and neither will build-up tensions dissipate all of a sudden. Only in retrospect did I notice how few patrolling police we observed – this I believe, will certainly have changed by now and thus have changed the image and feel of Barcelona ever so slightly. I do hope someone paints over the slogans around the city that read, ‚Tourist you are the terrorist,’ ‚Tourist go home or die,’ and ‚Why call it tourist season if we can’t shoot them’. As much I sympathise with the situation of the locals these battle cries were unsettling before the attack, and now are just plain terrifying.

Find the best panoramic hilltop views on a walk in Barcelona

„Do you think Park Güell is worth visiting?“ I asked Nico, our guide, at some point during the photography tour and received a very definite „No. Too touristy“. And yet this is where we ended up the next day because our guidebook implored us to. We regretted it almost immediately. Busloads of mostly Asian tourists were instructed by pink, yellow and red umbrella waving blaring loudspeakers, but still congested all pathways in proximity to the park’s entrance. As the monumental precinct (subject to entry charge since 2013) was also partly closed due to renovation and maintenance work, we gladly skipped that and instead walked around the freely accessible areas of the parks gardens and sculptures.

 

The crowds thinned considerably farther uphill, away from the monumental precinct. As Park Güell is situated on Carmel Hill in Gràcia, we enjoyed panoramic hilltop views of Barcelona standing at the foot of the stone cross (Turó de les Tres Creus) marking its highest point. Walking back downhill many tourists stopped in mid-stride pointing at black graffiti on a whitewashed wall reading „Tourist: your luxury trip my daily misery“ in big capital letters. That surely doesn’t make one feel welcome but we enjoyed this walk and in particular the views nonetheless – especially further uphill, away from the monumental precinct. If you can time your visit to before or after umbrella waving loudspeakers cause noise pollution, this track would also make for a great running route.

track details.

Distance: 3.1km

Time: 1 hour

Elevation: 74m

Start/end: corner of Av. del Santuari de Sant Josep de la Muntanya and Carrer d’Olot (entrance to Park Güell monumental precinct)

Running in Barcelona to Parc de la Citudella and the Port Olimpic

I had learned my lesson about running in Barcelona and set out earlier for my second run, at 7am. It was overcast and less humid than two days ago but instead of running along the waterfront again, I wanted to explore Parc de la Citudella. I marvelled at the sight of the nearly empty Ramblas yet again, and enjoyed the uninterrupted sprint to the ocean. I turned left once more where Columbus on his pillar pointed south-east, and made my way down Moll de Bosch i Alsina. Then, instead of turning right towards Barceloneta, I continued straight ahead. It drizzled slightly as I ran down Passeig d’Isabel II which lead directly to one of the entry gates to Parc de la Citudella, overlooked by two stone statues left and right, but for once I welcomed the cooling rain.

 

Originally a bastille built by the Bourbon rulers in the 18th century to control the city and used as prison, the area was remodelled into a public part in the middle of the 18th century. Still bearing the name of its unpleasant past, it nowadays contains a zoo, a nicely landscaped public recreational area, leftover exhibits from the World Exhibition in 1888, and the government building of the Catalan regional administration. Although it was tempting to enter the green park with its palm-lined pathways, I turned right to capture the magnificent early morning atmosphere at the Olympic port. Following the graffiti covered outside wall of the zoo, I turned right onto Carrer de la Marina and drank in the sea air at the port a few minutes later. The sun peeked through the cloud cover and painted the sailboats’ reflection in the smooth water surface in sepia tones.

 

Going back the same way, I entered the park and shortly after followed a path left (north-west) towards the Arc de Triomf, a reddish brick triumphal arch at the farther end of Passeig de Lluis Companys. Running down the broad boulevard, lined by palms and sprawling street lamps but otherwise fairly empty, I felt a little lost in its expanse. A homeless man curled up in a purple sleeping bag appeared miniscule, thwarted by the sheer size of the arch towering above his head.

 

At the foot of triumph and grandeur he lay, his sleeping bag and beanie spread on the ground, with not even a mattress for cushioning. I was so accustomed to homeless people in Berlin, that after years I inadvertently stopped noticing them. But now living in Switzerland, one of the world’s wealthiest nations, where Louis Vuitton handbags are mainstream and Porsches ordinary, one is rarely confronted with such appalling inequality. Here it was a bitter awakening to reality.

 

Back behind park walls, I followed one of endless path winding between monuments, statues, and a lake, meeting only a few other runners. Truly impressive is La Cascada, a fountain adorned with statues and ornaments and topped by a golden Quadriga de l’Aurora. The four horses drawing the carriage glistened in the sun. I ran back the same way, Port Vell to my left and up the Ramblas, and added a little loop in Eixample, by chance on Carrer d’Enric Granados, a beautiful and quiet residential street. There’s more space allotted to pedestrians and cyclists than cars, and thus a wonderful opportunity to explore the local neighbourhood on foot. As so often on my morning runs I made a mental note to come back later during the day to visit some of the eateries and shops.

 

This was a surprisingly diverse running route exploring the Ramblas, Parc de la Ciutadella and the massive Arc de Triomf, adding a quick side-trip to the Olympic Port for pink clouds and sailboats in pale morning sunshine and a loop through a sought-after residential area in Eixample. You can extend the route in Parc de la Ciutadella, or shorten it by skipping the extension to the Olympic port or the loop in Eixample.

track details.

Distance: 14.3km

Time: 1:20 hours

Elevation: 188m

Start/end: corner of Carrer del Consell de Cent and Carrer de Balmes

Go running with the locals along Barcelona’s Passeig Marítim

Going for a morning run on our third day in Barcelona changed my view of the city. Instead of the tourist clogged alleyways reminiscent of an urban cardiac arrest, the Ramblas was almost deserted today as I ran down the boulevard, for the first time noticing the beautiful buildings Església de Betlem, Palau de la Virreina, Casa Figueres, Gran Teatre del Liceu, and the Teatre Prinicpal, half-hidden by plane trees.

 

A Catalan grandma, slightly stooped, and wearing a long frock, pulled her shopping trolley towards the Boqueria. She paid no attention to the few early risers, who, take-away café con leche in hand, strolled aimlessly, but gave the North African hawkers a wide berth. One of the latter yelled after me, «Water?» as I jogged past. It was either that or beer. Perhaps he would have more luck selling beer to the group of teenagers sitting in a circle on the pavement smoking joints. All in all, there were about two dozen people on the Ramblas at 7:30. I ignored the stoplights and crossed Passeig de Colom at the roundabout circling the Mirador de Colom, on which stood the statue of Christopher Columbus who disembarked in Barcelona on his return from America. I reached the sea and turned left down Moll de Bosch i Alsina.

 

Running along the waterfront, I admired the marina and gently rocking yachts that were basking in the pale sunlight to my right.

If I could take one thing home from Barcelona, it would be the seafront promenade stretching northeast. It runs along right next to the beaches with no roads to cross, and no stoplights to obey. The wide pavement was embraced by runners, bikers and skaters exercising in the early morning sunshine. I loved this feeling of a runner community among strangers with its vague nods and smiles, or comfortable ignorance, everyone willingly sharing seconds of their morning run ritual with others.

 

Even in summer I’m as white as a bean and stuck out among the tanned locals rather unfavourably as I made my way down Passeig Maritim de la Barceloneta, past the Olympic port and giant fish sculpture by Frank Gehry, a remainder of the 1992 Summer Olympics suspended in the air. One half of a fish sculpture only as its head and tail fin were missing. It sparkled golden, then bronze as I changed position to the sun and its rays hitting the steel wire. My lack of artistic understanding grinds on the concept of a headless fish diving «head first» into the ocean; which I thought it contemplated doing. Maybe the artist was haunted by vivid gory memories of fishmongers at Boqueria beheading the stiff glassy-eyed catch of the day?

 

The beaches Nova Icària, Bogatell and Mar Bella followed and they were empty but for few swimmers. It was difficult to believe that the picture perfect coastline with its reddish-yellow beaches is the result of a massive regeneration programme for the Olympics only 25 years ago. For this, and even more difficult to believe – sand had to be imported from Egypt. Didn’t Spain by any chance occupy territory 25 years ago almost completely surrounded by ocean, and thus beaches and sand? Luckily they didn’t measure the carbon footprint back then which would have surely ruined the Olympics’. It is startling how much trash accumulates in a day, especially on Platja Barceloneta.

 

An armada of garbage collectors with tractors ploughed the sand for rubbish, while others dragged huge plastic garbage bags to collect piles of plastic cups, empty beer cans, and broken wine bottles along the promenade. Though only a small section of the promenade was badly littered, I wouldn’t want to arrive at Platja Barceloneta before the cleaning crew on an early morning swim. The temperature hit thirty degrees Celsius by 7am, and on my way back I looked like I’d just been for that early morning swim, sweat pouring down my face and soaking my clothes.

 

The only drawback of this spectacular running route in midsummer is the lack of shade. I hugged the shadow cast by the skinny palm trees on the hot pavement, desperate for a millisecond’s relief from the glaring sun, and then easily downed a 1.5 litre water bottle when I arrived back at the hotel.

I cannot imagine a more beautiful running route in Barcelona. Besides the never-ending series of beaches, proximity to the ocean, and a headless golden fish statue, it has just the right number of friendly fellow runners, it’s impossible to get lost, and it is safe at least in daylight, plus allows for easy variation of running length. In summer I’d recommend going early or after sunset.

track details.

Distance: 16.7km

Time: 1:30 hours

Elevation: 193m

Start/end: corner of Carrer del Consell de Cent and Carrer de Balmes