Olivella

The gravel crunches underfoot as you climb the final switchback, expecting another pine-scented vista of the Garraf massif. Instead, a golden Tibetan stupa glints between the oak trees, prayer flags fluttering above the Mediterranean scrub. This is Olivella: a village where the nearest neighbour is a Buddhist monastery, the castle is a ruin you can have to yourself, and the loudest sound is the wind rattling through century-old olive groves.

Halfway Between the Sea and the Sky

Olivella sits 211 metres above sea level, close enough to Barcelona for a day trip yet far enough that the evening air carries the scent of wild rosemary rather than diesel. The village proper clusters around the stone bell-tower of Sant Pere; the rest – scattered farmhouses, low vineyards, sun-baked farm tracks – spreads across 38 square kilometres of limestone hills. On a clear morning you can glimpse the sea glimmering 12 kilometres south, a pale stripe between the pines. Drive there in twenty minutes, but only after threading a dozen bends that feel designed to discourage anyone in a hurry.

The altitude makes its own weather. While Sitges swelters at 30 °C, Olivella can be five degrees cooler and breezy – blissful for walking, frustrating if you packed only shorts. In July and August the sun is relentless; locals tackle the trails at dawn and again at dusk, retreating indoors during the white-hot middle hours. Spring and late-September are kinder: green wheat flickers beside the paths, and the stone walls still hold the morning chill.

A Parish Church, a Ghost Hamlet and a Stupa

There is no checklist of must-see monuments. The Romanesque origins of Sant Pere are mostly buried beneath later rebuilds, but its portico offers shade and a vantage point over the tiled roofs. Five minutes’ wander brings you to carrer de l’Església, a lane so narrow that neighbours can trade newspapers across the gap. The appeal is cumulative: weather-worn portals, a faded ceramic street sign, the faint smell of horse saddles drifting from an old stable now converted into a weekend house.

Drive (or cycle) three kilometres north-east and the asphalt gives way to a dirt track climbing towards Jafre, an abandoned hamlet slowly surrendering to ivy and silence. Roofless stone houses frame a threshing circle; swallows nest where grain once dried. No ticket office, no audio guide, only the creak of a rusty water pump. Continue another twenty minutes and the path tops out at the ruins of Castell d’Olivella, an 11th-century fortress smashed during the Carlist Wars. From the broken battlements the land falls away in folds of cork-oak and Aleppo pine all the way to the coast – a view worth every drop of sweat, and you will almost certainly have it alone.

The biggest surprise lies south of the village centre. Sakya Tashi Ling, a Tibetan Buddhist monastery, occupies a former aristocratic summer palace surrounded by terraced gardens. Peacocks wander past lotus ponds; monks in burgundy robes shop for bread in the village on Tuesdays. The interior tour (€7, Spanish only) lasts forty minutes and winds through prayer halls thick with incense, thangka scrolls and a towering gilded Buddha. British visitors often wish for an English hand-out; the workaround is to linger at the back, read the Spanish captions on your phone’s translator, then reward yourself with alcohol-free lemon beer in the cloister café. Sunset chanting takes place most evenings at 19:00 – haunting even if you understand none of it.

Putting One Foot in Front of the Other

Olivella makes sense only if you leave the tarmac. The GR-92 long-distance footpath skirts the village, stitching together cork-oak woods, abandoned lime kilns and hidden freshwater springs. A popular half-day loop starts at the monastery gate, climbs to an astronomical viewpoint (mirador de l’Observatori), then descends through scented matorral back to the village square, 7 km and 250 m of cumulative ascent. Stone waymarks are sporadic; download the Wikiloc route the night before, because mobile data vanishes in the limestone gullies.

Mountain-bikers find the same tracks addictive but technical: pea-sized gravel on corners, sudden drainage ditches, the odd free-range dog sprinting in pursuit. Road cyclists face the opposite problem – gradients that look gentle on the profile but drag on for ten kilometres of big-ring sapping false flat towards the Penedès wine plain. Whichever saddle you choose, carry two litres of water per person in summer; shade exists, but never where you most want it.

Oil, Wine and Calçots

Agriculture is not scenery here – it is next week’s lunch. Small plots of tempranillo and garnacha checker the hills, supplying family cellars that sell bulk wine in plastic five-litre jugs for €7. Olive groves yield thick, peppery oil bottled under the Garriguella co-op label; look for the handwritten “Olivella” add-on if you want fruit harvested within parish boundaries. Between January and March, locals fire up roadside barbecues for calçotadas: lengthy feasts of charred spring onions dipped in romesco, eaten at long trestle tables under the pines. Tourists are welcome but bookings are Catalan-only; ask at the bakery – they will ring the farmer’s wife.

Evening meals in the village itself are low-key. Can Mora, a stone farmhouse on the edge of the historic core, serves grilled rabbit with rosemary and chips cut to order (menu del dia €17, cash only). There is no chichi tasting menu, just honest country cooking and a wine list that starts at €12 a bottle. For seafood you descend to the coast; for nightlife you keep driving to Sitges. Olivella shuts the shutters around midnight.

The Practical Bits Without the Bullet Points

No cash machine, no supermarket chain, no train station. Stock up on euros in Sitges or Sant Pere de Ribes before the final climb. Buses from Barcelona (L94) stop twice daily except Sundays; a hire car is less hassle and costs about the same as two taxi rides. Parking by the monastery is free and the safest trail-head; the historic centre has thirty spaces that fill fast on festival days.

Accommodation splits between stone cottages rented by British walking companies and private apartments scattered among the pines. Expect €90 a night for a two-bedroom casita with terrace, less out of season. August weekends treble the price and bring Barcelona families, portable speakers and inflatable pool toys – charming if you have children, maddening if you came for birdsong.

Rain is rare but spectacular: dry streambeds become brown torrents within minutes, turning the dirt tracks to goo. Check the forecast before setting out; the limestone plateau soaks up water like a sponge, then drops it unpredictably three valleys away.

Leaving Without the Hard Sell

Olivella will not fling itself at you. There are no souvenir stalls, no sunset boat trips, no flamenco tablaos. What it offers instead is rhythm: the squeak of a bicycle freewheel, the low hum of prayer wheels, the clink of a coffee cup in a square where the only clock is the church bell that still rings the quarters. Come prepared to move slowly, to speak at least pidgin Spanish, and to wash the dust down with wine that costs less than mineral water. Arrive with that mindset and the place quietly works its spell; arrive expecting entertainment and you will be back in Sitges before the monastery drums finish their evening roll.