Duesaigües

The stone archway into Duesaigües is barely wide enough for a Ford Fiesta. Wing mirrors tucked in, you crawl past the 18th-century bread oven and emerge onto a lane that hasn't changed much since the oven was last fired. At 268 metres above sea level, this isn't a eagle's-nest mountain village, but the view still drops away to the Mediterranean glinting 25 kilometres south-west. Between here and the coast stretch hazelnut groves and olive terraces the colour of army surplus – a patchwork that pays the bills when tourism doesn't.

Morning Sounds, Mountain Air

By nine o'clock the day is already warm nine months of the year. The village shop – open 8–11 am, cash only – sells almond-studded sponge called pa de pessic that tastes faintly of lemon and keeps until tomorrow's walk. Outside, the only queue is for the tractor: one farmer, two dogs, nobody in a hurry. British visitors sometimes expect a café con leche on every corner; instead there's a single bar that unlocks when the owner finishes feeding her chickens. Order a cortado and she'll appear, wiping hands on an apron, pleased for the company.

The name means "two waters", a reminder of the torrents that once powered stone mills. Follow the signed footpath south-east and you'll reach a ruined mill-race within twenty minutes; dragonflies skim the remaining pool and the surrounding reeds rattle like dry bones. It's an easy 3-kilometre circuit, flat enough for trainers rather than boots, and you'll meet more tortoises than tourists. Bring a litre of water: fountains marked on older maps often run dry by July.

Tracks, Not Tick-Lists

Serious hikers sometimes dismiss the Baix Camp as "foothills lite". That's missing the point. From the church door a spider's web of caminos rurals links Duesaigües to neighbouring hamlets—Arbolí, La Selva del Camp—through hazelnut and olive plantations. Distances are modest: 8 km to El Pinell de Brai, 12 km to the umbrella pines above Poblet monastery. Waymarking is sporadic but the logic is simple: keep the sea on your left going out, on your right coming back. Spring brings drifts of wild rosemary and the smell of hot resin; autumn means mushrooms, and locals will pause to tell you—usually in rapid Catalan—where the rovellons are popping if you greet them with a respectful "Bon dia".

Cyclists find the same lanes almost traffic-free. A sturdy gravel bike handles the occasional wash-out, though after heavy rain the clay sticks to tyres like glue. The climb north to the village of Pradell is 250 m of gain in 5 km: enough to raise a sweat, rarely enough to need lowest gears. Descend towards the coast and you can freewheel almost all the way to Hospitalet de l'Infant for an ice-cream before loading bikes back onto the car.

Lunch, If You Planned Ahead

There is no restaurant in Duesaigües itself. Midday options are:

• Drive ten minutes to El Pinell de Brai for escalivada (smoky aubergine and pepper) at Restaurant Cal Xarop
• Phone ahead for a table at Hort de la Roca, a UK-run villa that opens its kitchen to non-guests on Friday and Saturday for £22 three-course menus
• Buy cured sausage and local cheese from the village shop and picnic on the church terrace where the stone benches catch the breeze

Remember Catalan kitchens shut at 4 pm sharp; arrive at 3:55 and they'll feed you happily, arrive at 4:05 and the grill is already cleaned.

Stone Walls, Starry Nights

Accommodation falls into two camps: restored village houses or isolated farm stays. Casa Rural Cal Carulla occupies the old school at the top of the lane; thick stone keeps bedrooms cool and the tiny pool is big enough for a post-walk float. Further out, Villa Hort de la Roca offers hot-tub views over the olive sea—popular with British couples celebrating something quietly. Prices hover around €110 a night for two, including firewood and the sound of absolutely nothing after 11 pm. One consistent guest comment: "Bring slippers, the flagstones are freezing before May."

Evenings follow a simple rhythm. Church bells mark the quarter hours, swifts scream overhead, and when the lights of Reus flick on far below you realise how rarely you see real darkness at home. The village's single streetlamp obeys a motion sensor; stand still too long and the Milky Way re-appears in full. Expect shooting stars in August, satellite trains any clear night.

When the Village Wakes Up

Duesaigües' fiesta mayor lands on the closest weekend to 15 July. Suddenly 226 residents become 500-odd: grandchildren back from Barcelona, Belgian campervans parked where tractors usually turn. A brass band plays sardanas in the square, someone wheels out a plastic paddling pool full of iced vermouth, and dinner is a long communal table of fideuà (thin pasta paella) at €8 a plate. British visitors are welcomed, though you'll be pressed to join the Catalan folk dance whether your ankles cooperate or not. Book accommodation early; by May every rural house within 15 km is full.

Harvest season brings smaller gatherings. Late October sees an unofficial hazelnut exchange: bring a kilo, leave with someone else's oil or homemade ratafía. There are no tickets, no guided tours, just a poster taped to the shop door.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Fly to Reus (Ryanair from Manchester, Birmingham; BA from Heathrow) and you're 70 minutes away by hire car. Barcelona is an alternative, but allow two hours once you've queued for the autovia tolls. The last 8 km climb from the C-14 twist like a discarded bootlace; sat-nav drops signal in the final gorge, so screenshot directions before leaving the main road. In winter the ascent can ice over—locals fit snow chains to tractors, visitors generally wait for midday sun.

Public transport exists in theory: a once-daily bus from Barcelona to L'Espluga de Francolí, then a 3 km uphill walk with no pavement. Most Brits who try it once book a car the next day.

Worth Knowing, Worth Not Telling

Duesaigües will never tick the "must-see" box, and that's precisely its appeal. Come for slow mornings, for paths where the loudest noise is a hoopoe calling from the almond scrub, for evenings cool enough in May to need a jumper. Don't expect souvenirs beyond a bottle of peppery Terra Alta olive oil. The village offers breathing space rather than box-ticking, a place to remember what day of the week it is because the baker mentions it, not because your phone buzzes. Pack a paperback, sensible shoes and an elastic sense of meal times; leave the itinerary at home.