Besalú

Morning mist over the Fluvià

At seven o’clock the river is still silver, the bridge lamps reflect in the water like a string of pearls, and the only sound is the clatter of the baker’s van unloading pa de pagès outside the café on Plaça de la Llibertat. By eight, coach parties from Girona will begin their conga across the 12th-century Pont Vell, but for now Besalú belongs to the villagers: dog-walkers, teenagers cutting through the archway to the school bus, and one elderly gentleman in carpet slippers watering geraniums on a first-floor balcony that leans so far over the street it seems to sniff the bakery below.

The town hovers only 151 m above sea-level, low enough for olive and hazelnut groves to survive the Pyrenean winters that sweep down the valley. That altitude keeps summers tolerable—rarely above 32 °C—though the river traps humidity; if you plan to hike the surrounding Garrotxa volcanoes, set off early before the air turns clammy. Frost is common December–February, and when the tramuntana wind blows, the medieval stone corridors act like a wind-tunnel; pack a scarf even if Girona’s coast is balmy.

A county capital the size of a postage stamp

Besalú lost its capital status in the 14th century and never really grew again. The result is a core you can stroll in twenty minutes, yet the place governed half of northern Catalonia for three hundred years. Pride survives in the stone carving over doorways—look for the double-barred Besalú cross that once stamped local currency—and in the acoustics of Sant Vicenç’s bell, still tolled by hand at noon.

Start on the upstream side of the bridge where the tourist office (housed in the 14th-century Casa Cornellà) gives out a two-page map in English. Ignore the temptation to tick boxes; the joy here is repetition. Walk the bridge four times—at dawn, midday, sunset and when the bars close—and each time the volcanic stone changes colour: pewter, ochre, rose, charcoal. The central tower, rebuilt after the Civil War, was originally a tollbooth; medieval travellers paid a sous for every cart of honey or saffron heading to France.

The locked door everyone queues for

Besalú’s Jewish quarter never exceeded two hundred souls, yet it produced one of Europe’s best-preserved miqvé. The ritual bath lies down a narrow flight cut into the rock beneath what used to be the synagogue; water still seeps in through the sandstone, 25 m below street level. You cannot simply wander in. Tours run hourly 10:00–13:00 and 16:00–18:00 (closed Mondays), €2, maximum fifteen people. Arrive ten minutes early; if a cruise-coach has claimed the quota, come back after lunch. The guide explains why the bath is 1.60 m deep (full immersion required) and how Jewish women timed visits to the lunar month. Without commentary you would stare at a cold stone puddle and wonder what the fuss was about.

Bread ovens, not souvenir tea-towels

The souvenir shops on Carr del Pont sell the usual ceramic bulls, but the side alleys hide working artisans. Follow the smell of sawdust to the workshop of a luthier who builds rabel fiddles used in Catalan folk dances; he’ll show you the maple ribs if you ask politely. Opposite the church of Sant Pere, a former grain store houses a baker who still proofs dough in 200-year-old wooden troughs. His coques de sucre—thin flatbreads topped with butter and sugar—cost €2.20 and disappear by 11:00.

Market day is Wednesday. Fruit vans from Girona set up by 08:30, the square fills with gossip in rapid Catalan, and photographers jostle for low-angle shots of the arcades. If you want empty lanes, arrive Thursday or wait for the post-siesta lull around 17:00 when coaches have moved on to Figueres.

Flat riverside strolls—no crampons required

The GR-2 long-distance path skirts Besalú, but you don’t need boots. A 45-minute circuit heads downstream along the Fluvià, crosses a modern footbridge, and returns through poplars and kitchen gardens. The tourist office will point you to a three-kilometre loop that climbs gently to the ruined chapel of Sant Martí de Capellades; from the ridge you look back at the town’s walls curled like a sleeping cat around the river bend. Spring brings wild asparagus along the track; locals collect it with scissors tied to sticks.

Serious walkers can link to the Garrotxa Volcanic Zone: a signed 12 km route leads to the crater of Montsacopa above Olot, where you can catch a bus back. Summer heat makes an early start essential; carry more water than you think—there’s no café until Olot.

How to eat without a menu in English

Besalú has fewer than a dozen restaurants; most kitchens close 15:30 sharp. Book lunch by 13:00 or you’ll be picnicking on supermarket crisps. Pont Vell’s terrace hangs over the river; their €18 menú del dia starts with chilled tomato soup sharpened with sherry vinegar and ends with crema catalana burnt to order. NOX Arrosseria on the main square lists lobster paella at €44 for two—pricey, but they will swap seafood for chicken if the children revolt. Vegetarians should hunt for trinxat, a bubble-and-squeak of cabbage and potato topped with garlic sausage; most chefs will leave the meat off if asked politely.

Don’t leave without a xuixo (pronounced “shoo-shoo”), a cylindrical cream-filled doughnut rolled in sugar. The bakery on Carr Major fries them at 06:00; by 18:00 they’re yesterday’s news.

Getting stuck (and unstuck)

The town closes to traffic; park in the free blue-zone P2 beyond the sports ground—five minutes flat, fine with suitcases on wheels. Coaches sometimes clog the turning circle; ignore the signed camper area which becomes a tail-back of Dutch motor-homes. There is no petrol station in Besalú; the nearest pumps are 11 km away in Olot, so fill up before you arrive.

Winter access is rarely a problem—snow lies two weeks a year at most—but the river can flood after heavy rain, submerging the lower car park. Check the Ajuntament website for yellow alerts; if the water laps the first arch of the bridge, the medieval route is genuinely impassable.

Last orders, last light

By 21:30 the square empties. Bars stack chairs, shutters slam, and the bridge lamps flicker on one by one. Night-time photography is easier than expected: street-lighting is deliberately low to protect bats, so the stonework glows rather than glares. Stand midway across the bridge and you’ll hear two sounds: the river sliding over the weir and, if the wind is right, the bells of Sant Vicenç marking the quarter hours—exactly as they did when pilgrims followed the same flagstones towards Santiago.

Come morning, the coaches will return. But for a few quiet hours Besalú reverts to what it has always been: a small market town whose walls happen to be older than most countries. Stay overnight—there are only three small hotels, so book ahead—and you get those hours to yourself.