Olvan

A Parish, Not a Postcard

Olvan isn't one of those villages that announces itself with a tiled sign and a row of geraniums. It's a loose constellation of hamlets—Sant Pere d'Olvan, Les Lloses, Puig-reig de Dalt—scattered across 550 m of Berguedà foothills, 100 km north-west of Barcelona. The council counts 900 inhabitants, but you'd need a week and a decent pair of boots to meet them all. Stone farmhouses sit in their own fields, separated by oak scrub and the clank of a distant tractor. There is no high street, no plaza mayor, no souvenir shop. The only thing approaching a landmark is the eleventh-century church of Sant Pere, its bell tower poking above a small rural cemetery, and even that is locked unless someone's funeral or wedding coincides with your walk.

What you do get is space. Proper, uncluttered space. The Pyrenean front range rises to the north like a serrated bread knife; southwards the land rolls away towards the Llobregat valley. Between the two, Olvan's lanes trace dry-stone walls and threshing floors that haven't moved since the Moors were a local worry. Mobile signal is fine, but the loudest noise is usually a hoopoe calling from a telephone wire.

Walking Through the Working Countryside

Forget way-marked national parks: this is a working landscape, and the footpaths are the same ones farmers use to check their almonds. A circular tramp of 8–10 km strings together three or four masías—thick-walled farmhouses with arched doorways and wooden balconies—before dropping into a hollow of holm oak and back up to a ridge that delivers a straight-line view to the Cadí cliffs. The gradients are gentle by Pyrenean standards, but the sun is unfiltered and there is zero shade in July; carry more water than you think reasonable.

Cyclists treat the BV-424 and BV-426 as a training loop. The tarmac is smooth, traffic rarely exceeds six cars an hour, and the 250 m climb out of the Bastareny gorge is enough to make thighs twitch without frightening children on half-term hire bikes. Mountain-bikers can duck onto forest tracks that lead towards the ruins of Castell de Roset, though expect loose cattle rather than trail centres—no red arrows, no bike wash, just a gate you must remember to close.

Food at the Edge of the Comarca

Olvan itself keeps only three places where you can sit and be served. The best known is Sol I Cel, halfway between Sant Pere and the C-16 bypass. Its €14 menú del día lands somewhere between farm-kitchen honest and airline-catering safe: roast chicken with peppered chips, or a serviceable escalivada of aubergine and red pepper if you're dodging meat. House red comes in 500 ml carafes and tastes better once you've been outside in the wind. Booking isn't essential at lunch, but the dining room fills with local contractors at 1.30 pm sharp; arrive early or join the queue of high-vis vests.

For self-caterers, the village's two grocers open 9 am–1 pm, reopen 4 pm–7 pm, and lock up all weekend. Bread arrives frozen from a Gironella bakery; fresh fish is whatever fits in the owner's car boot on Thursday. Serious supplies mean a 10 km run to Gironella's Mercadona before Saturday 2 pm, or you will spend Sunday staring at tinned asparagus.

Autumn changes the rules. When the first rains arrive, half of Catalonia descends with wicker baskets looking for níscalos (saffron milk-caps). The forest tracks clog with parked Seat Leóns; expect polite but firm negotiations over who reached which oak first. If you fancy joining, pick up a €5 fungal permit from the Ajuntament and learn the Catalan for "they're already cut" before you lift a knife.

The Donkey Sanctuary Everyone Mentions

TripAdvisor calls Fuïves the top "thing to do" in Olvan, which tells you something about nightlife. The centre breeds Catalonia's native donkey, the ruc català, and dispenses tiny cups of moscatell while you stroke animals that look like Eeyore on steroids. Entry is €8, tours last 45 minutes, and yes, you can buy vacuum-packed donkey salami. British visitors usually treat it as ironic picnic material; locals insist it's no odder than eating venison. Either way, the gift shop wraps your purchase in plain brown paper so you won't get odd looks at customs.

Seasons, Silence and Getting Stuck

Spring brings blossom and the year's first respectable weather, but also the tramuntana wind that barrels through the Prepirineo and rattles every shutter. Come May the fields turn a theatrical green, and daytime temperatures sit in the low 20s—perfect for walking before the mosquitoes wake up. Summer is hot, often 32 °C by noon, and the landscape browns to biscuit colour; pools attached to holiday cottages are open Easter–October only, so November swimmers should prepare for a cold shock.

Winter rarely sees snow below 700 m, but night frosts are common and the BV-426 can ice over. If you book a rural house between December and February, check whether the access track is tarmacked; several masías sit at the end of 2 km of dirt that turns to ochre slime after rain. Hire cars with summer tyres have been known to spin here until March.

Public transport exists, but only just. The daily bus from Barcelona (Alsa) stops on the C-16 at 3.15 pm; the return leaves at 7.30 am, which rather decides how long you'll stay. Gironella, 10 km away, has a railway halt on the Barcelona–Puigcerdà line—four trains a day, two of them at civilised hours. A taxi from Gironella costs €18 if you pre-book; after 9 pm you'll be walking or hoping your host owns a people-carrier.

When the Fiesta Finally Starts

Olvan's social calendar revolves around Sant Pere at the end of June. The council hires a cover band that murders Spanish pop classics until 2 am; locals set up long tables under plane trees and pass around trays of butifarra and white wine from plastic jugs. Visitors are welcome but not announced—turn up, buy a €6 raffle ticket for a ham, and you'll be offered a plastic plate of fideuà within minutes. August sees smaller, neighbourhood verbenas in Les Lloses and Puig-reig de Dalt: sardanas on a portable stage, children chucking water bombs, grandfathers grumbling that the caramelles choir was sharper in 1978. None of it is staged for tourists, which is precisely why it feels worth watching.

Leaving Without the Gift-Shop Bag

By the time you drive back down the C-16, you will have spent money on precisely two things: lunch at Sol I Cel and a strip of donkey charcuterie you aren't sure anyone will eat. Olvan offers no magnets, no fridge magnets, no fridge. What it does provide is a working slice of Catalan upland where the twenty-first century arrives via fibre-optic cable but dinner still depends on whatever the tractor headlights illuminate in the lane. Come prepared—fill the boot with groceries, download offline maps, bring a paperback for the evenings—and the place makes sense. Turn up expecting waiters in waistcoats or a medieval parade and you'll be asleep by ten, wondering why the countryside can't try harder. The village isn't being rude; it simply refuses to audition for a part it never applied for.