Igualada

Morning in the Tanneries

At 315 metres above sea-level, Igualada starts the day ten minutes later than Barcelona. The sun has to clear the ridge of Montserrat before its light hits the stone basins of Les Adoberies, the old leather quarter. Steam still rises from the restored tanning pits: they’re empty now, but the smell of alum and oak bark lingers in the brickwork. Inside the Museu de la Pell, guides switch on lights that reveal hides stretched like parchment and shears the size of a child’s arm. It is the only museum in Spain devoted to leather, and on weekday mornings you get it almost to yourself.

The visit begins in a dim shed where a 1920s conveyor belt dangles above a single spotlight. No attempt at nostalgia—just the facts: at peak output, 3,000 workers stood knee-deep in dye vats here, turning goat skins into gloves for northern Europe. An interactive map shows which London department stores stocked Igualada goods; Harrods appears twice. Allow ninety minutes, longer if you’re the sort who reads every label. English tours run at 11:30, but slots can vanish when a cruise coach slips in from Tarragona.

The Straightest Stroll in Catalonia

Exit the museum, cross the iron footbridge and you land on Passeig Verdaguer, claimed locally to be the longest straight avenue in Spain. Plane trees planted in 1864 form a colonnade that ends, 1.2 km later, at the railway viaduct. No souvenir stalls, no Segways. Instead, elderly residents walk dogs the size of handbags and teenagers thread between them on electric scooters. The Modernista houses arrive in twos and threes: look up to see stained-glass balconies shaped like dragon wings and ironwork painted the colour of pistachio.

Half-way down, the old Hospital Civil has become a library. You can walk in, past the original 1906 tile mural of St. Roch, and use the Wi-Fi without a card. Just beyond, the pavement widens into a square where the town hall occupies a neoclassical box of grey stone. On Saturdays its steps turn into an informal market for collectible coins and obsolete peseta notes—browsers stand about discussing exchange rates as though Franco were still in power.

Churches, Warehouses and a Field of Balloons

Turn left at the town hall, climb Carrer de la Creu and you reach Santa Maria. The basilica is fourteenth-century but the roof was rebuilt after Civil-War shelling; inside, a single bomb-damaged column is left unrepaired, the stone scarred like a bark beetle trail. Guides will point it out only if asked—no drama, just evidence. Across the lane, the Roser church offers the opposite mood: Baroque icing swirls across a façade barely ten metres wide, as if someone had squeezed a cathedral into a terraced house.

By mid-afternoon the wind swings east, carrying the smell of calçots roasting over vine shoots. Restaurants set up tables on the pavement; order the spring onions only if you’re wearing dark clothes and don’t mind smelling of smoke for the rest of the day. A full portion (a dozen) costs around €18 and arrives with a clay dish of romesco that looks like brick mortar; the correct technique is to tip your head back and lower the onion like a ship’s funnel, but no one minds if you use cutlery.

If you happen to be here the first weekend of July, the evening ends in a field three kilometres north. Buses labelled “EBF” leave from the railway station every half-hour from 5 a.m. That is not a misprint: the European Balloon Festival begins at dawn, when thirty-odd balloons inflate in near silence, their burners spitting blue light. By 7 a.m. the Pyrenees are visible, then Montserrat floats past at eye level. Entrance is free; coffee from a food-truck is €2.50 and tastes better than anything on La Rambla. The downside is the queue for the loos—bring tissues.

Hiking to the Sky without a Basket

Balloonists see the countryside; walkers can reach it in twenty minutes. From the top of Passeig Verdaguer, a gravel track follows the river Ódena south-east toward the ruined castle of Vilaseca. The path is way-marked but shared with mountain-bikers; step aside when you hear bells. After 4 km the valley narrows and the air smells of rosemary heated by sun on schist. Montserrat appears again, this time framed by pines. The round trip takes two hours at British rambling speed, longer if you stop to photograph every orchid.

For a stiffer outing, the GR-172 long-distance trail starts behind the railway sheds and climbs to 1,100 m in the Serra de Rubió. In April the slope is carpeted with white thyme and the only sound is bees. Summer is a different story: temperatures touch 36 °C and shade is theoretical. Carry more water than you think decent—village fountains marked on old maps tend to be dry.

Buying the Town (Twice a Year)

Igualada’s retail reputation rests on two flash-sales known as Rec.0. For one week in April and another in September, the disused cotton mills behind Les Adoberies turn into a pop-up village of 140 outlet stores. Mango, Desigual and Camper offload last season’s stock at 70% off; rails are restocked nightly, so Tuesday afternoon still yields bargains. Thirty-two food-trucks park outside, selling everything from Korean bibimbap to vegan haggis. British visitors who complain about Spanish closing hours relish the 10 a.m.–10 p.m. opening; the only irritation is the queue for the changing tents, which resembles a Ryanair boarding gate without the jet engines. Hotels triple their rates that week—book early or stay in Manresa, twenty minutes north by train.

Getting Here, Staying Here, Leaving

The R6 line departs Barcelona-Sants every hour; journey time is 75 minutes and a same-day return costs €9.85. Trains have no buffet, so pick up water and a bocadillo before boarding. Igualada station sits ten minutes below the centre; the walk uphill is paved but steep in places, and taxis hover like vultures for the luggage-laden.

If you drive, leave the AP-7 at Martorell and follow the C-244c through vineyards. Parking on Passeig Verdaguer is free after 2 p.m. on Saturday and all day Sunday; weekday limits are strictly enforced by camera, and the fine arrives by post weeks later.

Accommodation is limited to a handful of three-stars and a new dormitory-style hostel in a converted convent. Weekday rates hover around €70 for a double; during the Balloon Festival or Rec.0, €180 is common. The smarter move is to visit in late October, when the sky is still cobalt and hoteliers will negotiate.

Last Light on the Tanneries

By six the sun drops behind the ridge and the temperature falls five degrees in as many minutes. Workers spill out of the textile logistics hubs that have replaced the tanneries, but the old quarter keeps its own rhythm. Lights flick on inside the museum, revealing the silhouette of a 1930s bicycle still loaded with hides. From the footbridge you can look west toward the mountains and east toward the plain, the town suspended between industry and empty sky. No one will tell you Igualada is unmissable; that is precisely why it repays the detour.