Capellades

The first thing you notice is the din. A wet, rhythmic clatter echoes through the stone mill as a 200-year-old wooden mallet—driven by the river Anoia—beats rag pulp into submission. It is 11 a.m. on a Saturday, and the only paper museum in Spain that still makes the stuff by hand is in full voice. Most visitors have driven the 55 minutes from Barcelona expecting a quick look at static machinery; instead they leave half an hour later with damp sheets they have pressed themselves, initials embossed in the corner, and a new respect for anyone who once earned a living here.

Capellades sits 300 m above sea level on a sandstone bluff where the river has cut a narrow gorge. The altitude keeps summer a touch cooler than on the coast, but winters bite: morning frost is common and the occasional snow flurry blocks the single winding road that drops from the C-15 down into town. Spring and early autumn are the sweet spots—warm enough for the river pools to glint turquoise, cool enough to walk the surrounding ridges without carrying litres of water.

A Town That Worked for Its Living

Five thousand people still live here, and the place feels lived-in rather than polished for the coach trade. The main street, Carrer de l’Església, is wide enough for hay wagons because that is what it once carried. Modernista façades—floral stucco and iron balconies—appear every few doors, proof that paper money once arrived in serious quantities. Then the profits stopped; the last commercial mill closed in 1960 and the town settled into a quieter rhythm. Today the butchers advertise botifarra with white beans at weekday prices, and the bakery sells coca de recapte (aubergine and red-pepper flatbread) warm at seven in the morning.

Start at the Museu Molí Paperer, the eighteenth-century mill that the town council saved from ruin. Tours run only when the water is channelled through the sluice—usually the 11 a.m. slot in English if you email a day ahead. You will be shown how discarded linen shirts were chopped, soaked and stamped until the fibres floated like milk. Children can pull the lever that lowers the mallet; adults tend to linger over the 1783 ledger that records sales to London stationers. Entry is €6, card only, and the visit lasts 45 minutes. Afterwards, slip out of the side gate to the tiny Bassa behind the mill: a mirror-calm millpond fed by a three-metre waterfall, perfect for five minutes of reflected sky before you head back uphill.

River Pools and Ridge-Top Castles

From the museum it is a ten-minute walk to the Basses de Can Maçana, the chain of natural rock pools that locals treat as their private beach in July. Wooden boardwalks stop the banks turning to mud, but the stone is slick; bring footwear you do not mind soaking. On weekdays you may share the water with only a pair of grey herons. Weekends are rowdier—families arrive with cold fideuà and cans of Estrella—but the upper pools stay quiet if you scramble another 200 m upstream.

If you prefer dry boots, follow the signed path south-east along the river to La Torre del Breny, a thirteenth-century watchtower that keeps vigil over the Anoia valley. The climb is 150 m of zig-zag through pine and rosemary; 25 minutes at British rambling speed. The tower itself is little more than waist-high walls, but the view stretches from Montserrat’s serrated outline in the north to the cava cellars of Sant Sadurní in the south. Take the GR-5 back into town and you will pass the ruins of three smaller mills, their millstones still in situ, wrapped in wild clematis.

What to Eat, and When

Capellades still shuts between 4 p.m. and 7 p.m. Lunch, therefore, is non-negotiable before three. Cal Xic in Plaça de la Font serves a three-course menú del dia for €14 mid-week: expect pa amb tomàquet followed by rabbit stewed with prunes and a glass of local cava. Vegetarians are not an afterthought—grilled artichoke hearts with romesco sauce appear without fuss. If you miss the lunch window, the only option is usually the bakery’s bocadillo de tortilla eaten on a bench; most bars will sell you coffee but nothing solid until 8 p.m.

Saturday morning hosts a modest market in the same square: two cheese stalls, one knife-grinder who has worked the same spot since 1982, and a couple selling calçots between February and April. Roll up your sleeves—eating the long spring onions involves sauce dripping down forearms and a bib provided by the stallholder. Locals pair them with cava drunk from a traditional porró, a glass pitcher that looks like a cross between a watering can and a laboratory flask. Tourists are encouraged to try; dry-cleaning bills are your own affair.

Getting There, and Away Again

Public transport works if you are patient. Take the train from Barcelona-Sants toward Lleida and change at Martorell—total journey 80 minutes, €7 each way. Services thin out after 7 p.m.; miss the last connection and a taxi from Martorell costs €35. Driving is simpler: head out of the airport on the C-32, switch to the AP-7 for 20 minutes, then peel off onto the C-15. Tolls amount to roughly €12 return; petrol is cheaper than in the UK but not by much. Free parking rings the old centre—look for the blue-lined bays that turn white after 6 p.m.

Accommodation within the village is limited to three small hostals and the nineteenth-century manor house Can Carol, now a six-room guesthouse with a pool cut into the rock. Doubles start at €85 B&B; book ahead for April and October when Catalan schools schedule cultural trips. A smarter option is to base yourself in nearby Sant Sadurní d’Anoia (15 min drive) where cava producers such as Gramona offer cellar tours and modern hotels, then visit Capellades for half a day.

The Catch

There is no getting round it: outside festival weekends the town goes quiet after 9 p.m. If you are looking for tapas crawls and late-night flamenco, stay in Barcelona. The paper museum is shut on Mondays, and several cafés close entirely on Tuesday afternoons. Finally, the river pools shrink to a trickle in August—still pretty, but you will not want to swim.

Yet for anyone curious about how Europe once turned old clothes into the pages of books, Capellades delivers something better than a static display: a machine that still thumps, a craftsman who still smooths wet pulp with a wooden frame, and a town that never quite gave up making things. Arrive by eleven, leave after lunch, and you will carry home a piece of paper you made yourself—plus the memory of a place where industry and landscape still echo each other, 300 metres above the Mediterranean.