Mont-ral

A church bell strikes the hour, but nobody hurries. At 888 m above the Mediterranean, Mont-ral runs on daylight, weather and whatever needs doing in the fields below. The village crest is only a 35-minute dash from Reus airport, yet the temperature drops a good four degrees on the final 6 km switchback, and phone reception flickers out long before you reach the stone gate arch. Suddenly the Costa Dorada feels very far away.

The Village that Forgot the Clock

Seventy-odd houses climb a knoll so narrow that the main street doubles as the main viewpoint. Stone walls the colour of burnt cream soak up afternoon heat; balconies, no wider than a railway sleeper, carry geraniums and the occasional mountain bike. Look east and the sea glints 45 km off; look west and the Montsant ridge blocks the sky like a rumpled fortress wall. Between them lies a patchwork of holm-oak forest, almond terraces and the odd tractor moving slower than a hiker.

Permanent residents number 183, but that figure triples in August when Spanish families unlock second homes and the only bar stays open past 11 pm. Out of season, silence is the default soundtrack—broken by a chainsaw, a dog, or the wind that arrives most afternoons and rattles the TV aerials. Bring a fleece even in July: nights can dip below 15 °C, perfect for sleeping but chilly if you expected balmy Mediterranean evenings.

The single grocery opens 09:00-13:00, closed Sunday and Monday. Bread arrives frozen; fruit is whatever grew within twenty kilometres. Stock up in Valls (20 min down the C-14) where a Consum sells filter coffee and cheddar for anyone who can’t face breakfast without both. Cash is another pre-emptive task: the nearest ATM is back in Alcover, a ten-minute descent that feels longer when you’ve remembered the bill for Saturday’s asado is cash-only.

Walking Straight Out the Door

You can dump the car keys for days. Three way-marked routes leave from the upper fountain: the PR-C 124 loops through holm-oak woods to the abandoned hamlet of Mont-ral Vell (5 km, 200 m climb), while the GR 171 slices north–south across the whole Alt Camp, dipping into river gorges where grey herons flap off at your approach. A short but stiff option drops 250 m to the Glorieta ravine, where granite slabs have been scoured into smooth swimming pockets. British families rate these pools higher than any hotel splash zone—just mind the algae, and don’t expect lifeguards.

Spring brings orchid explosions along the path verges; October fires the oak canopy copper and gold. Both seasons give empty trails and 20 °C afternoons, ideal for the traveller who likes views without a queue at the top. August walkers should start at dawn: by 11 am the thermometer can nudge 32 °C and shade is scarce on the limestone crests.

Cyclists find the area addictive and brutal. The road from Alcover averages 6 % but throws in ramps of 11 %; the reward is 20 km of high plateau before you meet another vehicle. Mountain-bike tracks are signed but rocky—think Peak District grit rather than Surrey smooth. Hire bikes in Reus if you didn’t pack your own; the shop will lend a helmet that makes you look like a Spanish telecoms engineer, but it beats a fractured skull.

Food at Altitude

There is no restaurant in the village itself. Instead, lunch means a ten-minute drive (or a 45-minute downhill walk) to the Glorieta restaurant on the T-700, where €14 buys three courses, bread and wine. Expect grilled botifarra sausage with white beans, followed by crema catalana thick enough to stand a spoon in. Vegetarians get escalivada—pepper, aubergine and onion roasted until smoky—though you must ask; menus assume everyone eats pork.

Evening options rotate between two neighbouring villages. In Vilaplana, Cal Xirricló serves slow-roast lamb shoulder for two (€32) but only at weekends; book before you leave Britain, they cook one per table. Closer still, the Cor de Prades hotel keeps its kitchen open to non-guests on Friday and Saturday nights. British reviews praise the charcoal-grilled entrecôte and the local olive oil that tastes of green tomatoes and pepper. Drinkwise, house red comes from the nearby Conca de Barberà—light enough for a school-night yet able to stand up to the mountain chill.

Self-caterers should try the Saturday market in Valls: hunks of mountain cheese wrapped in cloth, almonds still in their fuzzy skins, and the short, fat breadstick called xuixo that collapses into sugary flakes. Pack a cafetière: Spanish supermarkets stock only espresso grind, and filter papers are rarer than a cloudless February day.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Late May and late September hit the sweet spot—warm days, cool nights, wildflowers or autumn colour, plus accommodation at two-thirds the August price. The village fiesta around 29 June fills the square with brass bands and fireworks; fun if you like crowds, hopeless if you came for silence. Winter is properly cold: thermometers can read –2 °C at midday, and the access road is salted, not gritted. Chains are rarely needed but hire cars with summer tyres will spin uselessly on the hairpins. Snow itself is patchy; the real hazard is ice that lingers in the shade until March.

Summer weekends book solid with Barcelona families fleeing the coast. Expect rental prices to jump from €90 to €160 per night for a two-bedroom house with wood-burner and terrace. Mid-week bargains persist even in July—fly into Reus on a Tuesday, leave before the Friday exodus, and you’ll share the dawn path only with the local shepherd.

The Catch

Mont-ral is not “unspoilt” in the brochure sense; it’s half-empty. Empty houses mean empty services: the bakery shut years ago, the doctor visits twice a week, and if the bar owner’s mother is ill you’ll find the metal shutters down for three days straight. Mobile signal is patchy—Vodafone and EE users get one bar on the church steps, everyone else must walk 200 m towards the cemetery. Rain turns the slate pavements into an ice-rink; wear grippy soles or shuffle like a pensioner.

And yet that is the deal. You swap certainty for space, Pret for pa amb tomàquet eaten on a wall while watching a booted eagle ride the thermals. Pack patience, a bag of cash and a sense that plans are approximate. Then let the village decide what kind of day you’re going to have—Mont-ral has been doing that for centuries, and it’s not about to consult TripAdvisor now.