Sant Sadurní d'Anoia

The train pulls in at 10:17 and the station platform smells of grapes. Not the syrupy perfume of supermarket fruit, but the sharp, almost cider-like scent of fermenting must drifting across the tracks from a warehouse the size of an aircraft hangar. Sant Sadurní d’Anoia doesn’t wait for visitors to reach the cellars; the town announces its trade before you’ve even found the exit.

At 162 m above sea-level the air is a degree or two cooler than Barcelona’s. Morning mist clings to the Anoia river and the surrounding ridges look gentle—more Surrey than Sierra—yet the altitude is enough to give cava its bite. Drive (or, easier, take the half-hourly Rodalies train from Sants) and you’ll notice the thermometer drop another notch with every vineyard you pass. In July that translates to evenings you can sit outside without wilting; in January it can mean frost on the platform at midday.

A Grid of Streets, a Lattice of Tunnels

The centre is barely four streets square. Elderly men still roll bocadillos of sobrassada and shout across the road in Catalan that sounds closer to French than Castilian. Look up and art-nouveau balconies curl like wrought-iron seaweed; look down and the bollards are concrete corks—an inside joke the council formalised in 1998. Behind the façades lies a second town: more than 80 km of cellars dug into the soft limestone, some dating to the 1870s. Codorníu’s neo-Gothic tasting hall is impressive, but the real astonishment comes 30 m underground where galleries stretch beyond head-torch range and the temperature sits at a constant 16 °C. Bring a jumper even in August.

Freixenet offers the blockbuster tour—small electric trains shuttle visitors through cathedral-sized caverns where four million bottles age in neck-down racks. English guides run every hour but weekends sell out; book before you leave the UK if you’re tied to a Saturday slot. Prefer something quieter? Recaredo takes eight people at a time, insists on advance payment and issues hard-hats like a mine manager. The payoff is a walk through vineyards followed by a vertical tasting that proves cava can age as gracefully as vintage champagne. Expect to pay €22–€28 for the premium visits; basic tours start at €12 and almost always end with a glass of brut nature.

When the Village Becomes One Big Bar

The third weekend of October is Cavatast, a three-day crawl that turns every square into an open-air taproom. Forty producers set up white tents along Carrer de Sant Antoni; you buy a glass for €3 and tasting tickets for €1.50 a pop. Last orders are theoretically 21:00, yet the crowd of locals, sommeliers and stag-weekenders from Bristol doesn’t thin until the police start looping the streets at 23:00. Accommodation within the town is limited—one hostal above a bakery, a handful of Airbnb flats—so most visitors stay in Vilafranca del Penedès (15 min by train) and ride the late service back. Book early; flights to Barcelona rise the moment the Cavatast dates are posted.

If you miss the festival, quieter tastings happen year-round. Simón Coll, a chocolate works founded in 1840, pairs slabs of 72 % cacao with chilled rosé cava in a 180-degree projection room that feels like a mild acid trip. Children get the non-alcoholic version; adults leave with a grin and a sugar rush that makes the 16:00 train back to the city feel like a conga.

Paths Between the Vines

Sant Sadurní sits in the middle of a shallow amphitheatre of vines. The tourist office (open 10:00–14:00, closed Mondays) will print out a free map of the Ruta del Cava, a 12 km loop that links five hamlets and two hilltop chapels. Way-marking is sporadic—Catalan farmers assume you can read the landscape—so download the GPX before you set off. Spring brings poppies between the rows and the smell of fennel crushed under bike tyres; in late September the same tracks are sticky with juice and the air vibrates with harvest tractors. There is no shade; carry water and a hat even in April. If 12 km sounds too gentle, the GR-92 long-distance footpath crosses the northern ridge and offers 400 m of ascent through pine and rosemary before dropping to the river again.

Rainy-day fallback: the tiny Museu de la Festa inside the old hospital shows papier-mâché giants that parade each February. Admission is free; captions are Catalan-only but the caretaker will switch on an English audioguide if you ask nicely.

What to Eat When You’re Cork-Weary

Lunch is late and cava rarely arrives only in the glass. Canals & Munne, a stone-floored bodega hung with 1920s posters, serves a three-course menú del día for €19 that includes half a bottle of their own brut. The duck confit comes lacquered in cava reduction; the crema catalana is torched tableside with a plumber’s burner and a flourish worthy of Bake Off. For something lighter, La Cava d’en Sergi plates up bomba potato spheres whose spicy centres cry out for a chilled reserva. Vegetarians do better than in most Catalan towns—grilled calçots (spring onions charred over vine cuttings) appear from February to April and taste like leeks wearing smoky aftershave.

Sunday is tricky. Kitchens shut by 16:00, the baker sells out of coca flatbread before 11:00 and even the kebab shop on Carrer de l’Estació takes a siesta. Arrive before 13:30 or reserve; otherwise you’ll be nibbling supermarket crisps on the platform.

The Catch

Sant Sadurní is not picturesque in the postcard sense: the river is channeled through concrete, and 1970s apartment blocks muscle in beside Modernista mansions. August afternoons can feel deserted as locals head to the coast; January fog swallows the vineyards and the odd cellar tour is cancelled if too few people turn up. And though the train is wonderfully convenient, the last service back to Barcelona leaves at 22:17—miss it and you’re looking at a €70 taxi to the city.

Still, where else do traffic islands mimic champagne corks and schoolchildren practise castells in the square between crates of bottles waiting for second fermentation? Spend a day here and you’ll understand why Catalans insist cava is not merely Spanish fizz; it is a landscape you can drink—one that hisses, sparkles and, occasionally, pops louder than the church bells.