When I started planning my Catalonian adventure, the itinerary practically wrote itself: Dali’s house, Gaudi’s masterpieces, and as much local wine and seafood as I could sensibly (or not-so-sensibly) consume. I had two options , a scenic road trip from Figueres to Barcelona or a more rooted stay with daily wanderings. I went with the latter, which you can read more about in my post Exploring Catalonia and its Gastronomy, a trip chasing flavour and magic in equal measure.
I set myself up near Palamós, in the beautifully rugged Baix Empordà region. From there, I planned a trip to Barcelona. Driving to the city felt like inviting stress along for the ride, so I parked in Girona and opted for the train instead.
I don’t speak much Spanish, and despite telling myself for years that I’d change that, I didn’t, so here I was, standing at Girona Station giving myself the first (but far from last) internal monologue of self-scolding. I managed to book the slow train. Not just any slow train, but the 2-hour-and-20-minute coastal chugger that stopped at every station, instead of the fast, sleek 45-minute ride.
Still, it was scenic. As we hugged the coast, the Mediterranean seduced me with its deep, dreamy, aqua blue sea that gently lapped onto the beach. A beach that doesn’t bother with modesty. Full display mode: sun-kissed, sea-salted, birthday suits all around. Some locals even took a moment to wave at the passing train, undeterred by the chilly breeze!
Then came the soundtrack of the journey: mid-ride, a fellow passenger stood up and belted out “I’m Only Human” by Rag’n’Bone Man. No preamble, no hat-passing, just a mic from somewhere and a voice that made everyone forget we were on a rattling commuter train. By the second chorus, half the carriage was singing along. A few stations later, a man climbed aboard with a backpack full of ‘bits and bobs,’ water and possibly a mango. He sold a few things, chatted to some passengers, and vanished as quickly as he appeared.
By the end of the ride, I realised something: even the wrong train can take you somewhere wonderful. And sometimes, it’s the uniqueness, the naked wave-givers, and the pop-up performers that turn your transit into the highlight reel.
Casa Basilio – the house of light and colour
Arriving in Barcelona, my first stop was to visit Casa Batlló. Walking down the Passeig de Gràcia in the Eixample district, the house stands out like a fairy tale shimmering creature of the ocean among a traditional row of stores. I knew Casa Batlló would be extraordinary, but I wasn’t quite prepared for how otherworldly it would feel.
Its aqua-painted façade ripples like waves, wrapping around windows adorned with mosaic tiles, while the dragon-shaped roof, covered in iridescent scales, looms overhead, a tribute to Sant Jordi, the patron saint of Barcelona, and the legendary beast he defeated.
Every detail echoes nature’s artistry. The window structures, reminiscent of skulls and bones, add an eerie beauty, while the interior skylights resemble turtle shells. Then there’s the magnificent wooden staircase, spiralling upward like the backbone of a giant creature, its carved handrail snaking through impossibly shaped spaces.
Every corner of Casa Batlló pulses with intention. In the study, sunlight catches on 24-carat gold leaf, spilling warmth across a space that once hosted serious business in serious style. Just beyond, the mushroom-shaped chimney hugs a heated lover’s seat carved into its nook. I stood for a moment, imagining the whispers and stolen kisses it must have overheard over the years.
Later, perched on the rooftop with a glass of prosecco in hand, I gazed over the dragon’s glistening tail and the army of chimneys and thought, the house says more about the Batlló family than Gaudí. They didn’t just commission a home, they gave full creative rights to Gaudí to dream out loud. And dream, he did.
Casa Mila ( La Pedrera)
Just a few steps from the mystical Casa Batlló, Gaudí conjured his next project, sculpted like wind-blown stone. Known as La Pedrera, or “The Quarry,” Its façade ripples with a kind of rhythm, as if the elements carved it slowly and lovingly over centuries.
Inside, it’s evident that this building was designed for a different personality. Its rooms are thoughtfully designed for a high-society family, featuring marble floors around a courtyard and the area’s first residential car park. In this era, important people wore hats and carried parasols, and Gaudí viewed the ceiling as the hat of the house. The higher you climb in this house, the more of Gaudí’s signature magic comes to life.
In the attic, arches like the ribcage of a creature shape the building. On the rooftop, chimneys stand like masked sentinels; some look like warriors mid-battle, others like creatures halfway between myth and machine. And then there’s the view: Barcelona spread out in every direction, the city’s heartbeat visible from this surreal perch.
Park Güell: A Garden City Turned Dreamscape
Originally dreamt as a garden city, the park abandoned the ordinary. What Gaudí created was a public space dripping with fantasy. It’s a living dreamscape of twisting paths, otherworldly benches, and a dragon fountain in a kaleidoscope of colours, as if it had crawled out of a painter’s palette. It guards the steps with theatrical flair, scales glittering in bursts of turquoise, orange, and gold. I found myself mesmerised like a kid eyeing a mythical creature, half expecting it to snort confetti!
The deeper I wandered into the park, the more my brain struggled to keep up with what I saw; stone isn’t supposed to flow. Columns spiral like ancient oaks, ceramic mosaics ripple like skin under sunlight, and the benches stretch and slink like sun-soaked snakes, lounging without a care. Everything feels alive, as if the architecture took a breath and decided to play.
If you look closer, you’ll also notice that there are bird nests in the walls. They are not just decorative; these stone alcoves were designed to be functional homes for birds, blending architecture with ecology, inviting nature in.
Sagrada Família – the masterpiece
Before I entered the building, the Sagrada Família had cast its spell, towering and intricate, part cathedral, part celestial vision, and completely breathtaking.
Gaudi spent over 40 years of his life breathing vision into its stone, crafting a space where light spills like water through coloured glass, and every curve feels alive with meaning. The Nativity Façade was my favourite, facing the morning sun, with carvings of animals, angels, and stories that felt both familiar and surreal. Turtles and lizards guard the entrance; angels trumpet new beginnings; even rain spouts were shaped like open-mouthed creatures. Faith, Hope, and Charity frame the doorway like three gentle reminders.
Some details shook me, especially the haunting sculpture of Herod’s decree, tucked into the Portico of Hope. It’s heavy, emotional, and unexpectedly raw for a façade that celebrates birth. But that’s the magic of this place, joy and sorrow coexist, all in the service of faith.
Gaudí didn’t just design it, he imagined it as a place for atonement, reflection, and renewal. He didn’t rely on flat sketches, either. He used everything from clay to vegetables to model his ideas. He even made plaster casts from real animals to shape the lifelike details of the façade.
It’s still unfinished, and somehow that makes it more powerful. Like faith, it’s constantly evolving, slowly reaching toward heaven, one stone at a time.
Salvador Dali – Portlligat
My trip to Portlligat was a separate day trip, which was steeped in magic and wonder. Read more about my journey in my Exploring Catalonia and its Gastronomy blog.
Visiting Dalí’s home in Portlligat felt like stepping into a magician’s lair tucked beside the sea, a space that blurred the line between eccentricity and genius.
The moment I stepped through the front door, a life-sized polar bear greeted me, proudly draped in medallion chains, casually standing guard beside a shotgun and a collection of Dalí’s walking sticks. This wild welcome was a gift from Edward James, the eccentric poet and patron who supported Dalí’s surrealism.
Above the sitting area, three taxidermy swans perch with theatrical poise, casting gentle shadows over the bookcase. I didn’t give them much thought at first, but as the day unfolded, I realised swans quietly echo through Dalí’s work, symbolising fragility, beauty, and the thin line between what’s seen and imagined.
The room that stayed with me the most? His bedroom. It was arranged like a stage set, with a mirror perfectly positioned to catch the sunrise, Dalí’s ambition was to be the first Spaniard each day to see the morning light. I’ll admit, I made a mental note to try this sunrise trick at home if I don’t end up with my dream of a house with a sunset view! More unusual was the cricket in a box that he kept beside him to help him sleep. Dali loved the repetitive chirp of the crickets rubbing their wings together.
Walking through his studio felt like peeking into the backstage of his mind; whitewashed walls, natural light pouring in, and a wooden frame rigged on a pulley that allowed his canvases to glide up and down through the floor. He would paint seated, the canvas moving to meet his brush. It was practical, yes, but also a bit theatrical, very Dalí.
Then there was the acoustic room, hidden next to the dressing room with wardrobes filled with celebrity photos. Stand dead centre under the domed ceiling, and your voice reverberates as if it’s being sung through a mic.
The house itself winds and twists like a warren, growing organically over time as Dalí bought the neighbouring homes and stitched them together. The garden spills out over the rooftops, broken into different terraces with sweeping views of the sea below. But the pool is where the drama peaked. A lip-shaped sofa inspired by Mae West’s lips sits boldly centre stage, flanked by Firelli tyres. Wooden animals, life-size lions, and a large material snake wrapped around a pergola watch the pool area. It’s not restful, it’s a performance.
Salvador Dalí Theatre Museum – Figueres
By the time I arrived at the Salvador Dalí Museum in Figueres, I looked like I’d been caught in a surrealist weather experiment, drenched from a thunderstorm, dripping through the entrance like one of Dalí’s melting clocks.
This isn’t your typical museum. Dalí didn’t just exhibit here, he designed the whole space, a theatrical masterpiece in its own right. It feels like stepping into a subconscious realm, unlocking hallucinatory elements of one’s mind without the need for drugs. As Dalí put it, he wanted to “make the Empordà region a universal place through the Dalí Theatre Museum,” and you can feel that ambition in every room. From the central courtyard, with its central installation complete with a Cadillac, overlooked by rows of gold-coloured mannequins adorning the walls of the old theatre, to the surreal geodesic dome that crowns the stage of the old Municipal Theatre, it’s pure spectacle.
One of the things I love most about the museum is its subjectivity. The more you look, the more you see, and then you realise you missed half of it the first time around. It’s a place that rewards curiosity.
Take, Gala Nude Looking at the Sea, Which at 18 Meters Appears to Be President Lincoln. The first time I passed it, I saw Gala, serene and singular. But over an hour later, from a different angle across the museum, Lincoln revealed himself. Dalí was a master of visual trickery, reminding us that meaning can shift, look, look again, and then look once more. In the same room is Labyrinth, a striking piece created for a ballet at the Metropolitan Opera House in 1941, it dominates the stage like an oversized portal to Dalí’s subconscious. You can glimpse references to Cap de Creus peeking through the breast-shaped opening in the scenery.
In the Fishmonger’s Room, I lingered on two self-portraits, Dalí and Picasso, facing off. At first, it feels like rivalry. But Dalí admired Picasso deeply. In his portrait, Picasso is depicted as an emperor, surrounded by symbols, carnations, goat horns, and a mandolin; all of which serve as references to intellectualism, superiority, and sentimentality. Dalí’s portrait is softened, slumped over crutches with a slice of bacon perched on it, a nod to his everyday breakfast and his surrealist belief that even the mundane could be magnificent.
And then there’s Galatea of the Spheres (1952). Gala, Dalí’s muse, fragmented into perfect atomic orbs, suspended in space. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how we’re all just stardust, atoms waiting to re-join the universe. This piece hit that chord beautifully. A quiet reminder that we are more, and less, than what we appear to be.
I could pick out many more amazing artworks, and there is so much I want to revisit to see. My recommendation is to spend some time getting lost here.
Leave your thoughts