Rubió

At 629 metres, the village thermometer is often five degrees cooler than Barcelona airport an hour away. That single fact explains why Rubió’s stone façades still carry lichen in July, and why the evening air smells of damp pine long after the Costa Brava has turned muggy. It also explains why most visitors arrive by accident—drivers aiming for the coast who peel off the AP-7 too early and find themselves climbing the C-153, a road that narrows to a single cattle-track lane just when the sat-nav insists “you have arrived”.

Rubió is not a destination that announces itself. The municipal sign is half hidden by a walnut tree; the population counter underneath reads 244 on a wet Tuesday, 242 by Friday. What you notice first is the quiet—no humming pool pumps, no scooter exhaust, only the odd chain-saw somewhere down the valley. The second thing you notice is the horizon: a roll-call of low Catalan ranges—Montserrat to the east, the Guilleries to the north—layered like cut-out cards against a sky that stays dark enough at night for Orion to cast a shadow.

A parish, a bar and a view

The entire historic core fits inside a crooked triangle formed by the church, the former school and the only bar. The Church of Sant Pere, rebuilt in the 1700s on medieval bones, keeps its doors unlocked. Inside, the cool air smells of candle smoke and the stone floors dip where centuries of farmers have paused on the way back from the fields. The bar—simply Bar-Restaurant Can Rubió—opens at seven for esmorzar de forquilla, the Catalan fork-breakfast: botifarra sausage, white beans and a glass of red that costs €2.40. By nine the regulars have gone back to their tractors and the place turns into an informal tourist office; ask here for walking leaflets because the town hall does not produce them.

Beyond this triangle the village fragments. Farmhouses sit half a kilometre apart, linked by farm tracks that double as public footpaths. Many are still working holdings: somebody’s grandmother hangs washing between pear trees, somebody’s nephew parks a brand-new Clio next to a threshing stone. The architectural style is practical rather than pretty—stone walls 60 cm thick, ceramic-tile roofs the colour of burnt toast—yet the overall effect is cohesive, as if the whole landscape were one large, loosely connected house.

Walking without way-markers

Official maps show three sign-posted circuits; in reality there are more paths than signs. A safe starter is the 5 km loop that leaves from the church, drops to the dried-up streambed of the Riera de Rubió, then climbs past Mas Palou, a fortified farmhouse whose doorway still bears the 1623 inscription “Tota cambra fa la seva olor”—every room keeps its own smell. Spring brings poppies between the wheat rows; in October the same fields turn metallic yellow and the air smells of barley straw. Shade is sporadic, so start early or carry water: in August the temperature gap closes quickly and 35 °C feels hotter at altitude because the air is thin.

Mountain-bikers use the same web of tracks. Gradient is gentle but surfaces vary: packed clay, loose chippings, the occasional granite slab. A competent rider can link Rubió to the neighbouring hamlet of Pujalt in 25 minutes, then freewheel down the old drovers’ lane to Calaf market town for lunch. Nobody charges for parking the bike anywhere.

What you will not find

There is no cash machine; the nearest ATM is 12 km away in Sant Hilari Sacalm, a drive that feels longer because the road wriggles. Mobile coverage on UK networks (Vodafone, EE) fades in and out; download offline maps before leaving the motorway. Sundays bring total shutdown—no shop, no bakery, not even the bakery van that tours bigger villages. Plan ahead or be prepared to drive half an hour to the coast for a loaf.

Accommodation is limited to three rural houses (casas rurales) and a pair of guest rooms above the bar. None has a pool; instead you get starlight and the occasional owl. Prices hover around €90 a night for two, breakfast included, but owners prefer weekly lets in July. August books up early with Barcelona families escaping the furnace of the city; British visitors tend to fit Rubió between Girona and the beaches, staying one or two nights.

Food that does not need translating

The local restaurant keeps its menu short: grilled lamb cutlets, botifarra sausage with white beans, and a mixed grill mountain platter that swaps liver for extra bacon—safe territory for children who think they do not like Spanish food. Wine comes from the Penedès cooperatives 30 minutes south; the house red is young, chilled and poured into a porró glass jug that you tip from a height without touching your lips—more fun than hygienic. Dessert is usually recuit, a fresh cheese drizzled with honey made by the waiter’s uncle. Vegetarians get the Catalan answer to pizza: coca de recapte, a flatbread topped with roasted aubergine and red pepper, served cold.

If that sounds too rustic, the medieval town of Osor ten minutes down the valley has a pizzeria, Les Planes, that does excellent margherita and will issue ketchup without a lecture. Either way, lunch starts at 14:00; arrive at 12:30 and you will eat alone while the staff hover with cloths.

When to come, when to stay away

April and May give the brightest greens and the wildest orchids; the temperature sits in the low 20s and night frosts are gone. September repeats the trick with added grape-harvest scent. Mid-winter is crisp, often snowy for a day or two, and the wood-burning stoves make village houses smell like toast. Access then can be tricky: the C-153 is treated as a “local road” by the gritting crews, so carry chains or book a 4×4 if snow is forecast. July and August deliver reliable sunshine but also day-trippers from Manresa who arrive with portable barbecues and speaker phones; the silence fractures after 11 a.m. and does not return until dusk.

A useful stop, not a must-see

Rubió works best as a breather rather than a box-office hit. Tired of the Costa Brava traffic? Drop in for a night and walk the barley ridges at sunset. Driving back to Girona airport with time to spare? Come for breakfast and leave feeling you have seen the calendar-version of Catalonia without the crowds. Just do not expect to tick off “sights”; the village offers a vantage point, a decent sausage and the rare sensation that your phone has finally shut up. Take it or leave it—Rubió will not notice either way.