El Papiol

The 08:04 RENFE train from Barcelona pulls in and only five people step off. One is a postman, two wear hi-vis vests, and the remaining pair have OS maps sticking out of rucksacks. In that moment you understand El Papiol: close enough to the city for daily wages, far enough away that weekend hikers still outnumber souvenir hunters.

Elevation 135 m doesn’t qualify as mountain drama, yet the climb from the station to the old centre is enough to raise a sweat. Olive and pine start to dominate the roadside planting; apartment blocks shrink behind you; the air smells of damp bark rather than diesel. At the top, Carrer Major opens into a plaça where the church bell strikes the hour with a tone that suggests it has done so since 1237 (it probably has).

A Castle that Opens One Morning a Month

Castell de El Papiol is not Disney, and thank goodness for that. The squat stone keep with its crenellated walkway is shuttered most of the time, but on the first Sunday of each month the iron gate swings wide between 11:00 and 14:00. Entry is €5, exact coins appreciated, and the ticket doubles as a postcard of the façade. Inside, spiral stairs finish in a roof terrace that shows why medieval lords bothered: you can see approaching armies, or at least the morning traffic queueing for the AP-7.

Guided tours are Catalan-first, Spanish-second, English-if-you-ask-nicely. Leaflets in readable English exist, though they cling to the phrase “feudal dominion” with academic pride. Kids usually lose interest after the dungeon; adults linger over the 1752 wine-press and the view towards Montserrat, which on clear winter days looks close enough to touch.

The castle sits one street above the plaça, so when the bell tolls twelve the sound ricochets off the stone walls and makes everyone speak in whispers, as if volume might wake the counts buried beneath the flagstones.

Collserola on the Doorstep

Turn left at the pharmacy and a gravel track leads straight into the Serra de Collserola Natural Park within five minutes. This is Barcelona’s green lung, but the El Papiol flank feels like the diaphragm: essential, overlooked. Way-marked routes range from 45-minute loops (green dashes) to half-day traverses that finish at Baixador de Vallvidrera, where you can catch a train back. None go higher than 500 m, so oxygen is plentiful and the main hazard is cyclists who treat the path like a Tour de France descent.

Spring brings the usual Mediterranean orchestra: cigales buzzing, stone pines dropping cones that roll like marbles under boot. After rain the clay sticks to soles and grows heavy, proof you are definitely not in the Picos. Autumn is quieter, warmer, and scented with crushed rosemary. Either season beats mid-July, when shade is rationed and the undergrowth crackles like newspaper.

Maps are downloadable from the park website; the free Wikiloc app carries English-language GPX files created by local walking groups. Mobile coverage is patchy once you drop into the ravines—download before you leave the plaça wifi outside the library.

Lunch at a Civilised Hour (or Don’t)

Spanish clocks still baffle British stomachs. Kitchens open at 13:30, last orders 15:45, then nothing until 20:30 at the earliest. Plan accordingly or you will end up buying crisps in the only open corner shop and pretending it’s a tapa.

Can Colomé, opposite the church, keeps a grill blazing year-round. Menu del dia €14 mid-week buys three courses, bread, and a carafe of wine light enough to function afterwards. Steak arrives grey unless you specify “poco hecho, por favor”; chips are proper thick-cut, none of that under-seasoned French nonsense. Vegetarians get escalivada, a smoky aubergine-pepper tangle that tastes of outdoor fires.

Cal Pupinet around the corner does smaller plates for sharing. Croquetas de pernil (ham) are the size of golf balls and just as dangerous to the waistline. House white is fermented in steel tanks twenty kilometres away—no oak, no fuss, cold enough to forgive the noon heat.

June’s Cherry Festival stretches the eating timetable. Temporary stalls sell clafoutis, jam, and a lethal cherry liqueur that tastes like Ribena but kicks like tequila. Book accommodation early: there is precisely one Airbnb in the historic core and it sells out six months ahead.

Practicalities Without the Brochure Speak

Getting here: Fly to Barcelona-El Prat, take the airport train to El Prat de Llobregat, change to the R4 line towards Manresa. El Papiol station is 25 minutes, €2.40 with a two-zone T-casual ticket. Trains run every 20 minutes on weekdays, hourly on Sunday. The station is a 12-minute uphill walk to the centre—comfortable shoes, no taxi rank.

When to come: April–May and late September–October give you 20 °C days, cool nights, and lower risk of the tramuntana wind that whips dust across the Llobregat delta. August is hot (32 °C) and the castle closes for maintenance; December can be surprisingly sharp, so pack a fleece if you fancy a Boxing Day stroll.

Money: Cards accepted everywhere except the castle ticket desk and the Saturday fruit van. Contactless works, but the machine in Can Colomé prints a paper slip you must sign—how very 2003.

Language: Catalan first, Spanish second, English third. Attempting either local tongue is appreciated; shouting slower English is not. “Bon dia” and “gràcies” cover most situations.

The Honest Exit

El Papiol will not change your life. You will not tick off one of the world’s great sights, nor will you boast about an epic mountain conquest. What you get is a slice of Catalan week-to-week living: bread delivered warm at 08:00, neighbours arguing over parking spaces, a hilltop castle that opens just often enough to stay mysterious. Visit between Barcelona’s big-ticket items, walk the pine tracks until your trainers are the colour of the local soil, then catch the 17:34 back to the city before the restaurants shut for siesta. It’s a breather, not a highlight reel—and sometimes that’s exactly what a holiday needs.