Beuda

The wind hits first. Even in July, it sweeps down from the Pyrenees with enough bite to make you reach for a fleece—proof that Beuda sits 338 metres above sea-level, high enough for the air to sharpen but low enough for holm-oak woods to carpet the slopes. At dawn the thermometer can flirt with freezing; by midday the same ridge bakes under a Catalan sun. Pack layers, or spend the day oscillating between goose-bumps and sun-cream.

Beuda’s stone houses huddle round the 12th-century tower of Sant Feliu, a church whose chunky Romanesque bones were later dressed in baroque clothes. The bellframe is still the tallest thing for miles, handy because Google Maps loses the thread here. Mobile signal vanishes among the platan-lined lanes, so the tower doubles as navigation aid and weather vane: when clouds snag on its pyramidal roof, rain is ten minutes away.

A parish that won’t unlock itself

Sant Feliu is kept locked—standard practice in rural Garrotxa. The key hangs in the kitchen of the terraced house opposite the bakery on Plaça Major, but only before 13:00. Miss the window and you’ll be photographing iron gratings instead of the carved baptismal font everyone raves about. Inside, the nave smells of candle smoke and damp stone; the font is a crude tub hewn from a single block, its rim worn smooth by centuries of infant wrists. Take five minutes to sit—pews are original, polished by 800 years of Sunday backsides—and you’ll hear the Fluvià river muttering below the graveyard wall.

The river is the village’s other artery. Follow the lane past the last house and a dirt track drops to swimming-hole bends where poplars throw shade even in August. There are no signs, no changing rooms, no lifeguards: just polished limestone pools deep enough to dive if you fancy the shock. Local kids arrive after school, hurl themselves in, and cycle home dripping. Copy them if you like, but bring sandals—the river hauls down volcanic pebbles that stay ice-cold all year.

Romanesque hide-and-seek across eight kilometres

Beuda’s real treasure is scattered. Within the municipal boundary lie five rural churches, an abandoned monastery and a pre-Romanesque chapel, all linked by a way-marked circuit that threads oak scrub and abandoned terraces. The full loop is 11 km with 350 m of ascent—enough to justify the fixed-price lunch waiting back in the square. Short on time? Tackle the northern arc: Sant Sepulcre to Santa Maria de Palera (4 km). Both sit in farmyards where chickens scratch between sarcophagus lids; farmers will wave you through if you stick to the path.

Winter changes the rules. Snow is rare but frost is not, and the clay lanes turn to skating rinks. From November to March the council grades the main farm tracks so tractors can pass; the rest become boot-sucking bogs. Come properly shod or expect to donate a sock to the mud.

Food that doesn’t shout

There is no supermarket, no cash machine, no petrol station. The bakery opens six mornings a week (closed Tuesday) and sells crusty pa de pagès that stays fresh precisely one day. For anything fancier, drive ten minutes to Besalú’s Saturday market: white beans called mongetes del ganxet, soft enough to mash with a fork; paper-thin sheets of coca topped with pine-nuts and pork crackling that taste like a Catalan answer to crispbread. Vegetarians beware—pork fat is considered a condiment here.

Can Nierga, a stone farmhouse on the road to Olot, offers a weekday three-course menú del dia for €18. Grilled lamb shoulder arrives mahogany-brown, scented with mountain thyme; roasted aubergine is served whole, split tableside and flooded with local olive oil. The wine list is short and local—order the garnatxa blanca, chilled enough to cut the fat but not so cold you miss the honeyed nose.

When the village doubles in size

August’s Festa Major turns Beuda into a different place. The population swells from 200 to 800 as emigrants return with city kids in tow. Brass bands parade at volumes best described as Catalan, and a communal paella feeds the square at Sunday lunchtime. It’s fun, loud, and the one week accommodation prices edge upward. Book early or come in late September when the oak leaves bronze and you’ll have the trails to yourself.

Getting here, getting out

Girona airport (served by Ryanair and Jet2 from nine UK cities) is 45 minutes away. Hire a car—public transport involves three buses and a prayer. Take the AP-7 north, exit at 6, follow the C-66 to Olot, then the C-260 towards Besalú. The turning to Beuda is unsigned until 200 m before the junction; blink and you’ll reach France. Fill the tank at the airport—mountain petrol is pricey and rural stations close for siesta.

Leave time for the drive home. Morning fog can close the C-260 for hours; the alternative route via the Vall de Bianya adds 25 minutes but throws in views of the Pyrenees that make the delay almost welcome.

Beuda won’t change your life. It will, however, give you a day of stone churches, river pools and lamb that tastes of thyme and wood smoke—provided you remember the key collection times and pack a fleece, even in August.