Begues

The church bell strikes noon. From Begues' 400-metre ridge, you can see Barcelona's skyline shimmering in the heat haze, yet hear nothing but cicadas and the occasional clink of cycling bottles. Twenty kilometres from the Catalan capital feels more like two hundred.

This mountain village sprawls across the Garraf massif's upper reaches, its stone farmhouses scattered through pine forests and almond groves that burst white with blossom each February. Unlike the Costa Brava's whitewashed hill towns, Begues clings to its working roots. Tractors still rumble past the 18th-century masías. Local farmers gather at Ca la Pringada bar for carajillos (coffee with rum) at 10am sharp. The place functions as a dormitory for Barcelona professionals seeking space, and a weekend escape for hikers who've discovered the trails fanning out from the medieval core.

Stone, Soil and Sky

The old centre amounts to three streets and a handful of squares, all tilting at improbable angles. Narrow lanes of honey-coloured stone converge on Pla de la Font, where a 19th-century washhouse still channels spring water through moss-covered troughs. Housewives once scrubbed linens here; today it's where teenagers practise skateboard tricks between the stone benches.

Above the square, the parish church of Sant Cristòfol squats like a fortress. Its Romanesque bones date from 1090, though successive rebuilds have left only the squat bell tower and arched portal recognisably medieval. Inside, the air carries beeswax and centuries of incense. A single stained-glass window throws sapphire light across weathered pews where the same families have worshipped for generations.

Walk five minutes uphill (everything here involves uphill) to Sant Pere Màrtir, a smaller Romanesque chapel marooned in fields of wild fennel. The cemetery beside it tells Begues' story: generations of Carafells and Ribas buried alongside more recent surnames from Andalusia and Latin America. The views stretch across the Llobregat plain to the Mediterranean, a silver stripe on clear days. On winter mornings, temperature inversions trap fog below, transforming the village into an island floating above cloud seas.

Paths Through the Pines

Begues' real appeal lies beyond the urbanised fringes. The municipality covers 50 square kilometres of limestone country laced with drove roads and charcoal burners' tracks. Waymarking ranges from excellent to whimsical – yellow paint slashes that vanish at crucial junctions, forcing map consultation or creative navigation.

The GR-92 coastal path skirts the village boundary, though here it runs 10 kilometres inland through Aleppo pines and umbrella-shaped carob trees. A rewarding half-day circuit heads south to the Cova de la Font del Bisbe, a cavern where Palaeolithic hunters left bone fragments and later herders scratched 17th-century graffiti. The entrance yawns beneath a limestone cliff; bring torches and avoid after heavy rain when the approach becomes a waterfall.

Cyclists favour the forest tracks linking abandoned farmsteads. The classic loop climbs to La Morella (593 metres) before descending through vineyards to the hamlet of Can Roca, now converted to holiday lets with infinity pools that seem absurd in this agricultural landscape. Mountain bikers share paths with wild boar and the occasional shepherd on a Honda 50, his dogs sprinting alongside in a cloud of dust.

Summer walking requires early starts. By 11am the sun turns limestone tracks into reflecting ovens. Temperatures regularly hit 35°C, three degrees warmer than Barcelona thanks to the lack of sea breeze. Autumn brings mushroom hunters prowling the pine needles for rovellons (saffron milk caps), while spring sees the almond blossom attract Instagram pilgrims who depart by lunchtime, leaving the hills to locals collecting wild asparagus.

Fire, Wine and Weekend Calories

Begues' cuisine reflects its altitude and history. This is peasant food evolved for farmers who spent daylight hours terracing vineyards or herding goats through garrigue scrub. Portions approach mountain quantities; the local concept of a light lunch would sustain a Yorkshire miner.

Weekend tables groan under calçots, those Catalan spring onions grilled over vine prunings until their outer layers blacken. Diners don bibs that make grown bankers resemble oversized toddlers, then dip the sweet white stems into romesco sauce thickened with almonds from local groves. The ritual continues from January through March, accompanied by porró challenges and arguments about whether the sauce needs nyora peppers or hazelnuts.

Carnivores gravitate toward botifarra amb mongetes, a cannon-barrel sausage served with white beans stewed in earthenware cazuelas. Vegetarians survive on coca de recapte, a rectangular flatbread topped with escalivada (roasted aubergine and peppers) that tastes of wood smoke and olive groves. The village's altitude suits wine grapes; local reds from Garnatxa and Carinyena varieties offer better value than anything bottled nearer the coast. Most restaurants source from Can Sadurní's vineyards, where Phoenician pottery shards prove 2,800 years of continuous cultivation.

Getting Lost, Getting Back

Begues frustrates visitors expecting Costa Brava convenience. No train station serves the village; the closest railhead at Gavà involves a 20-minute taxi ride up hairpin bends. Local bus L65 connects with Castelldefels twice daily, timing that seems designed to miss every flight connection. Car hire from Barcelona airport proves essential unless you're prepared for elaborate public transport gymnastics.

Accommodation options remain limited. Hotel Can Galvany occupies a converted manor on the urbanisation fringe, its spa treatments popular with golfers playing the nearby Masia Bach course. More characterful choices lie in surrounding farmhouses converted to rural tourism, though many demand minimum three-night stays and charge Barcelona prices for what amounts to a bedroom above a working stable.

The village makes an excellent base for contrarian Costa Dorada itineraries. Mornings spent hiking the Garraf's limestone ridges, afternoons exploring Sitges' beaches 20 minutes downhill, evenings back in Begues for fire-grilled rabbit and local wine. Winter visitors should pack layers – at 400 metres, January nights drop to 3°C while Barcelona remains balmy. Summer brings the opposite relief; when the city suffocates in 30-degree humidity, Begues enjoys cooling breezes that smell of pine resin and distant sea salt.

Sunday evenings reveal the village's split personality. Day-trippers depart for Barcelona, leaving streets suddenly silent except for the click of petanca balls in Pla de la Font and televisions murmuring through open shutters. The bakery sells out of cocas by 11am. The bar closes at 10pm sharp. From the church steps you watch the sun sink behind Montserrat's serrated silhouette, while below the coastal plain twinkles into life, Barcelona's six million inhabitants returning to weekday rhythms. Up here, a goat bleats somewhere in the darkness, and tomorrow's hiking trails wait unchanged.