Vallfogona de Riucorb

The village water arrives at 573 metres above sea level and tastes faintly of iron. That metallic tang is the first clue that Vallfogona de Riucorb is sitting on a thermal seam; the second is the pale-green steam drifting above the hotel roof at dawn. Most drivers barrel past the turning on the C-241, eyes fixed on Montblanc’s medieval towers 18 km away, which is exactly why the few who swing right find the place empty.

Seventy-one souls are registered here, though the head-count rises at weekends when children return from Tarragona city. Stone houses shoulder together around a single wedge-shaped plaza; the only commercial noise comes from the bakery’s extractor fan and the occasional clack of boules on the dusty petanca court. Mobile reception flickers in and out—useful if you’re trying to kick the habit of doom-scrolling.

The poet who laughed too loud

Francesc Vicenç Garcia was born in the rectory opposite the church in 1582 and scandalised half of Europe with satirical verses about priests, drunks and love. The locals still call him el rector de Vallfogona as though he might stroll out of the bar. A modest slate plaque marks the house; inside, the current priest will show you a first-edition facsimile if you ask politely after Mass (Sundays 11 a.m., August 7 p.m. vigil added). Garcia’s punch-lines are mercilessly Catalan, but even non-speakers catch the rhythm: short, bruising, designed to be declaimed after wine. The village keeps the joke alive each October with a recital in the olive press—folding chairs, free vermut, no microphones.

A spa that predates the brochure

The Balneari occupies a former ducal palace whose foundations drank from the same 38 °C spring since 1772. The water is lightly sulphurous; locals claim it dissolves hangovers and tennis elbow with equal vigour. Day passes cost €24 and include access to the outdoor thermal pool, indoor contrast circuit and a tiny gym that smells of pine disinfectant. Treatments—mud wrap, Vichy shower, wine-cream massage—start at €55 for 45 minutes; book the evening you arrive because hotel guests nab the slots before breakfast. Towels are provided, flip-flops not. The dress code is relaxed: you’ll share the water with septuagenarian farmers discussing almond prices in thick conca dialect.

If you’re staying overnight, ask for a south-facing room (numbers 204-209). They overlook the cherry orchards and catch afternoon sun long after the square is in shadow. Dinner is a fixed three-course menu—safe roast chicken or river trout, half-bottle of house white included—served at 20:30 sharp. Vegetarians get escalivia and a resigned shrug.

Walking tracks that don’t require crampons

Three way-marked paths leave from the fountain; none exceeds 10 km. The red-and-white PR-C 124 circles the village cornfields in 4 km, just long enough to justify a second coca from the bakery. The yellow PR-C 139 strikes east to the abandoned hamlet of Puigvert, where storks nest on a roofless church and someone still prunes the roses. Carry water between May and October: the track is exposed and shade is limited to two hedgerows and a ruined lime kiln. After heavy rain the clay sticks to boots like fresh cheddar; in July the earth bakes to concrete.

Spring brings a brief, outrageous display of wild tulips along the verge; autumn smells of damp oak and wood-smoke. Neither season attracts more than a handful of walkers, so you’ll hear your own heartbeat on the climbs. Serious hikers can link to the GR-175, a five-day loop through the Conca wine country, but that requires a car drop in Montblanc.

Wine without the coach party

The village itself grows none; the vineyards start two kilometres out in the valley of the Corb. Drive ten minutes to Barberà de la Conca and you’re in DO Conca de Barberà territory, a region that quietly feeds Cava houses with high-acid white. Cellers Gritelles offers a weekday tasting at noon for €10—call ahead, the winemaker doubles as the local dentist. Their Trepat rosé smells of strawberry stalk and cracked pepper, excellent with the village’s rabbit-and-snail stew if you can stomach the idea of eating both animals in the same mouthful.

Montblanc’s medieval walls hide larger bodegas, but the advantage of starting from Vallfogona is the empty road: you can spit responsibly and still be back for a siesta.

When to come, when to stay away

May and late-September give warm days (22 °C) and cool nights (11 °C) without the inland furnace of July. In August the thermometer kisses 36 °C by 13:00; the square empties and even the dogs seek the church’s north porch. Winter is a different village: fog pools in the valley, the thermal pool exhales ghost-like steam and the hotel drops its tariff to €70 half-board. Snow is rare but ice isn’t—carry chains if you book February. Easter weekend swells population to 300; book the Balneari early or you’ll end up in Reus wondering why you bothered.

Monday is closing day for both village bars; bring emergency crisps. Sunday lunch is the social event—locals linger over three-hour calçotadas between February and April. Tourists are welcome but not fussed over; expect to pour your own wine.

Getting here, and away again

Reus airport (Ryanair from Manchester, Birmingham, May-October) is 75 minutes by hire car. Barcelona El Prat adds 30 minutes but gives year-round flights and cheaper rentals. Take the AP-2 west, exit 9, then follow the T-700 towards Montblanc; turn right at the sign for Vallfogona-termalisme. The last petrol is at the motorway services—fill up, because the village pump locks at 19:00 and all day Sunday.

There is a bus, theoretically. The Hife line between Tàrrega and Reus stops at the junction 4 km below the village on Mondays, Wednesdays and alternate feast days. Miss it and you’ll discover how dark the Milky Way can be.

Cash, cards, and other anachronisms

The hotel accepts plastic; the bakery does not. The ATM in the square broke in 2022 and the nearest replacement is 12 km away in Espluga de Francolí. Bring €20 in small coins for coffee, almond turrón and the honour-box honesty stall selling dried rosemary and home-woven dish-towels.

Leave room in the suitcase for a bottle of Rector de Vallfogona red—labels feature Garcia’s mischievous portrait—though remember Ryanair will sting you €25 for the hold if you forget to add it online. Hand luggage only? Decant 100 ml into a reusable bottle and hope the metal tang survives security.