Martorell

Where the Rivers Meet the Railway

Two rivers, two railways, one Roman bridge. Martorell sits at the confluence of the Llobregat and Anoia, 56 metres above sea level yet low enough to feel the weight of Catalan history. The town's position—30 kilometres inland from Barcelona—made it a natural transport hub long before the motorway arrived. Today it's where the R5 train line splits: left for Manresa, right for the rack railway up to Montserrat. Most passengers glimpse the terracotta rooftops from the window and speed on. Those who step off discover a place that's neither postcard-pretty nor industrial eyesore, but something more useful: an authentic provincial centre that hasn't tidied itself up for tourists.

The first thing you notice is the noise of water. The Llobregat races through a narrow gorge, funnelling winter rain from the Pyrenees towards the Mediterranean. In summer the flow drops to a manageable trickle; in March it can drown the riverside path entirely. Plan accordingly—wellies beat sandals in spring, and the stone steps beside the Devil's Bridge turn slick with spray.

A Bridge That Outlasted Empires

Pont del Diable—Devil's Bridge to English ears—carries the Via Augusta across the gorge in a single 37-metre arch. Built in the first century AD, rebuilt after Muslim rule, rebuilt again after the Civil War, it's a palimpsest in limestone rather than parchment. Walk down from the modern road, past the ice-cream kiosk that opens at 10:30 sharp, and you stand where carts heading for Cádiz once rattled. The interpretation cabin (free entry, irregular hours) has a cut-away model showing how the Romans poured concrete underwater—handy ammunition for quiz-night pedants.

School parties arrive by coach at 11:15. Before that you may have the place to yourself apart from a retired man in a Barça cap feeding the sparrows. Cross the bridge, take the signed loop on the opposite bank, and you're back at the car park within 25 minutes. Free for the first hour, coins-only after—one of those petty Spanish bureaucracies that still catches Britons out. The machine swallows €2 coins greedily but rejects the new pound-sized ones; bring small change.

Up the Hill to the Old Town

From the river it's a ten-minute climb to the medieval core. The gradient is gentle enough for push-chairs, but the pavement narrows so often that you end up walking in the road. Drivers are used to it; they slow, they shrug, they carry on. At the top the eighteenth-century church of Santa Maria presents a classical façade that wouldn't look out of place in Bath, except the stone is honey-coloured and the pigeons speak Catalan. Inside, the neoclassical retable glitters with gold leaf paid for by textile profits in the 1780s—Martorell's first industrial boom.

Follow the painted bronze route set into the pavement and you'll pass the Arc de Sant Joan, once the town gate, now a traffic island. Two sections of wall survive: one propping up a row of garages, the other forming the back wall of a kindergarten playground. Children chase footballs beneath medieval masonry while parents check phones on a bench labelled "Funded by the EU". History here is not cordoned off; it's part of the furniture.

Factory Smoke and Modernist Houses

The second boom came with cotton. In 1855 the town had six mills; by 1900 it had thirty. Chimneys still rise above the rooftops, converted into lifts and glass-walled offices. The tourist office—housed in the old hospital—hands out an English leaflet entitled "Modernist Stroll". It directs you past houses with floral ironwork, stained-glass galleries and ceramic panels advertising long-defunct pharmacies. The walk takes 45 minutes if you resist the lure of the bakery on Plaça de l'Església.

That bakery, Pastisseria Martorell, deserves a detour. Order a rectangle of coca de sucre—thin bread topped with candied fruit and pine nuts—and the woman behind the counter will ask whether you want it "warm or normal". Warm wins. Eat it on the steps of the church and watch the weekly market assemble: fruit stalls first, then socks, then mobile-phone covers. Sunday mornings only; arrive after noon and all you'll find are plastic crates stacked like Lego.

Flat Walks and Stiff Calçots

Beyond the town the Llobregat opens into a broad valley. A converted rail bed, the Via Verda, runs 22 kilometres to Olesa. The surface is tarmac, the gradient negligible, the views a rotation of vegetable plots, poplars and distant escarpments. Rent bikes from the shop opposite the station (€15 half-day, helmet thrown in) or simply stroll as far as the first weir and turn back when the path turns muddy. British dog-walkers will feel immediately at home; the only difference is the smell of wild fennel rather than damp Labrador.

January to March is calçot season. These oversized spring onions are flame-grilled, wrapped in newspaper to steam, then dipped in romesco sauce and lowered into the mouth with theatrical mess. Restaurants on the road towards El Pont de Vilomara offer weekend calçotadas for €28 including wine, dessert and the inevitable bib. Vegetarians rejoice; meat-eaters get a sausage afterwards as consolation. Book ahead—whole Catalan families descend on Sundays and the smell of burning onion skins drifts across the valley like a medieval plague.

Getting There, Getting Out

Trains leave Barcelona Sants twice an hour; the journey is 35 minutes on the R5. A return ticket costs €8.40—half the price of a taxi to the airport. From Martorell station follow the yellow-painted footprints: 15 minutes, one underpass, one zebra crossing, and the Devil's Bridge appears beneath you. Drivers should take the A-2 motorway, exit 559, and aim for the free car park behind the river. Sat-navs occasionally send you down a single-track lane meant for tractors; ignore the machine and stick to the signs for "Pont Romà".

Summer brings 35-degree heat bouncing off the stone; winter can funnel the tramontana wind straight up the gorge. Spring and autumn are the sweet spots, when the river smells of wet moss rather than sun-baked algae. Allow three hours if you're simply ticking the bridge and the old town; a full day if you add the market, the modernist walk and a riverside picnic. Then hop back on the train and watch the chimneys shrink into the landscape, wondering why so many people kept going to Montserrat without pausing here first.