Sant Quintí de Mediona

The zip-line starts forty metres above the forest floor. Below, rows of tempranillo grapes march towards the Montserrat massif, and beyond them, the medieval bell tower of Sant Quintí pokes above terracotta roofs. This is the moment most British visitors remember—not the church, not the vineyards, but the sudden hush before they launch themselves over a Catalan wine region at 70 km/h.

Forestal Park sits on the northern edge of Sant Quintí de Mediona, a workaday village of 5,000 souls that most guidebooks skip entirely. The aerial course was built in 2008 to tempt Barcelona families inland at weekends; it now draws a steady trickle of UK visitors who have twigged that you can combine Tarzan-style thrills with a glass of cava poured ten minutes later. Pre-booking is essential—Saturday slots sell out to city dwellers fleeing the coast—and the higher circuits are genuinely taxing. One Surrey father described the red route as “Go Ape with vertigo”; bring trainers that grip, not the sandy flip-flops you wore on the beach.

After the final abseil back to earth, the village itself feels almost whisper-quiet. There is no postcard-perfect plaza mayor, no artisan ice-cream parlour with English menus. Instead you get narrow lanes where elderly residents lean from wrought-iron balconies to swap gossip, and a single bakery that runs out of croissants by ten. The 12th-century church of Sant Quintí has been patched so often that only the stone font remains truly Romanesque, but Sunday mass still fills the nave with incense and Catalan hymnody. Stand at the back and you’ll clock the same surnames on every pew—proof that families have been here since the baptismal records began in 1579.

Drop into Cal Maristany for lunch, the only restaurant English visitors ever name. The three-course menú del día costs €16 and rarely strays from grilled chicken, chips and a wobbling crème-caramel. It is not gastronomy, but it is exactly what vineyard workers eat before an afternoon shift, served with a carafe of local brut nature that costs less than a London latte. Vegetarians can fall back on pa amb tomàquet—rustic bread rubbed with tomato, garlic and a glug of arbequina olive oil—while children receive crayons and an unspoken licence to make noise.

The vines begin where the pavement ends. Sant Quintí sits at 300 m on the last ripple of the coastal range, high enough to catch the evening breeze that keeps fungus off the grapes. From the church door it is a five-minute walk to the nearest row of xarel·lo, the white grape that gives cava its citrus spine. Footpaths radiate for miles, way-marked by discreet yellow dashes that nobody repaints quite often enough. A circular loop south through the Mas Gran estate takes ninety minutes and delivers you to a stone terrace where the owner will pour a tasting flight if you WhatsApp the day before. Expect zero spittoons, zero jargon, and a labrador that expects crisps.

Serious walkers sometimes aim for the ruined Iberian settlement on Tossal Gros, 6 km north-east, but the trail crosses private vineyards where dogs bark louder than their chains. Cyclists have it easier: the BV-2121 that links Sant Quintí with Sant Sadurní d’Anoia carries only local traffic and offers a gentle 250 m climb followed by a freewheel through almond orchards. Road-bike hire is available in Vilafranca del Penedès (15 km inland) though you’ll need to collect before 11 a.m.—afternoon siestas are non-negotiable.

Winter strips the landscape to graphite sticks and ochre earth. Between December and February the village halves in volume; bars close on random weekdays and the adventure park shuts entirely. What remains is the antithesis of coastal Spain: no souvenir tat, no English breakfast, just mist rising from the vines and the smell of woodsmoke drifting from farmhouse chimneys. Bring a fleece after 4 p.m.—altitude means temperatures can be six degrees cooler than Sitges on the coast.

Spring is more forgiving. By late March the first green buds appear, and locals celebrate with a modest agricultural fair that nobody advertises abroad. You will watch toddlers chase geese between the stalls while their grandparents compare pruning sheaths. Entry is free; the wine flows from plastic jugs. Autumn brings the vendimia, when trailers heavy with garnacha grapes clog the narrow high street and the air smells of crushed blackberries. If you time it right, you can join a dawn pick at Celler Mas Bertran, finishing with a breakfast of botifarra sausage and cava at nine in the morning—an hour most British package tourists reserve for sun-lounger towels.

Getting here without a car requires patience. A Rodalies train from Barcelona Sants reaches Sant Sadurní in 45 minutes; from there a Monday-to-Friday bus continues to within 2 km of the village, but taxis are rarer than English beer. Hire cars collected at the airport slip onto the AP-7 south-west, exit 28, and reach Sant Quintí in 50 minutes—often quicker than the train-and-bus shuffle. Petrol is cheaper than the UK; parking is free and usually within 100 m of wherever you want to be.

Staying overnight is a choice between two modest options. The village’s only hotel, Can Font, has eight rooms above a bar that screens Barça matches at full volume. Walls are thin, beds are firm, and the €65 rate includes coffee strong enough to wake the dead. Alternatively, Masia Cal Mestre rents converted stables amid the vineyards 3 km out; British families like the pool and the honesty fridge stocked with local cava, though you will share the garden with two territorial geese.

Leave before sunset and you’ll miss the point. As the bells strike eight, the zip-line stills, the tractors fall silent, and villagers emerge for the passeig—the evening circuit that doubles as social media in human form. Grandmothers push prams, teenagers compare motorbike mods, and the English visitor with twigs in their hair is greeted not as an intruder but as tonight’s novelty. Buy a €1.20 caña at Bar Centric, claim a plastic chair on the pavement, and watch the sky turn the same garnet shade as the wine in your glass. No one will offer you a souvenir fridge magnet; they’ll simply nod, as if to say you’ve found the right altitude for once.