Canet d'Adri

The valley clock is a cockerel. At dawn it shouts from a stone barn roof, the sound ricocheting off hardwood slopes until even the pine-scented air seems to vibrate. By seven the tractors answer back, heading out along the lane that doubles as the village high street. This is Canet d'Adri, 217 m above sea-level and fifteen minutes’ drive from Girona’s ring-road, yet stubbornly determined to keep farm-hours.

Stone farmhouses, most still lived-in and working, scatter across folds of holm-oak and cork. They are connected by dirt tracks originally cut for ox-carts; tracks that now lure cyclists who’ve grown tired of the Costa Brava traffic. The municipality is a loose constellation of hamlets—Canet itself, Torrents, Sant Grau—rather than a single nucleated village, so the landscape feels bigger than the census figure of 749 suggests. You measure distance here in stone walls, not doorways.

Morning: the valley wakes up

Bread arrives at 08:15. The mobile bakery—really a white van whose driver knows every dog by name—stops outside the old school for exactly six minutes. If you miss it, breakfast becomes whatever is left in the colmado: vacuum-packed fuet sausage, maybe a mild cheese pastry that British children inevitably compare to cheesecake. Coffee is taken standing at the bar inside the former classroom; the blackboard still shows last weekend’s calcotada onion-roast tallies.

Walkers usually set off around nine, when the sun has burnt the dew off the footpaths but hasn’t yet reached furnace level. A circular loop links the Romanesque church of Sant Esteve with two working masias whose owners don’t mind polite nosey-parkers peering into stable yards. The route is unsigned—look for yellow paint daubs on gateposts—so a phone loaded with the free ICC map is worth more than a stack of glossy leaflets. Expect 5 km, 120 m of ascent, and a soundtrack of bee-eaters overhead rather than coach engines.

Afternoon: two wheels, one ridge

Mountain-bikers arrive after lunch, tyres already dusty from trails that start almost in Girona suburbs and finish on these ridges. The climb from Canet to the Gavarres crest is 250 m of calf-burning grit, rewarded by a view that stretches from the Pyrenees to the Gulf of Roses—on very clear winter days you can pick out the white bulk of Canigó floating like an iceberg above the plain. Descents are fast and stony; hard-tail bikes cope, full-suspension is luxury. Nobody sells lift passes, and thank goodness.

Road cyclists prefer the loop south-east to the Ter floodplain. It’s 28 km of almost car-free tarmac, flat enough for couples on hybrid rentals yet spiced with one 12 % ramp that sorts the Zwift heroes from the pretenders. Pack two water bottles: the only fountain is in Sant Gregori, halfway round, and July sun can hit 36 °C in the valley bowl.

Eating: plan, or go hungry

Canet itself offers precisely one restaurant, Les Encies, housed in the old teachers’ cottage opposite the football five-a-side pitch. Menu del dia runs to €14 mid-week and might feature grilled chicken, chips and a half-bottle of house red that tastes better than it should. They close on Tuesdays, random local fiestas, and whenever the cook’s grandmother in Banyoles is ill—ring ahead. Vegetarians can usually coax a roasted-veg coca (Catalan pizza) out of the kitchen, but vegans should pack emergency almonds.

Evening taxis back from Girona cost €30, so most self-caterers shop before they arrive. The nearest large supermarket is the Eroski in Santa Eugènia, five minutes off the AP-7. If you insist on travelling light, the Friday morning market in Girona’s Plaça del Lleó is worth a detour: fat tomatoes the colour of post-boxes, proper jamón ends for soup, and a cheese stall whose Manchego wedge will survive three days without refrigeration.

Seasons: choose your mood

April turns the valley neon-green and sends daytime temperatures to a British July (22 °C). It also brings the tramuntana wind, sudden and strong enough to slam terrace doors; bring a fleece for the shade. September is the sweet spot: mornings crisp enough for walking, pools still open, villa prices down a third. August is hot, sticky after four o’clock, and the village’s only swimming spot—a municipal piscina built in 1983—fills with shrieking nine-year-olds. Book a place with its own pool or accept you’ll be driving twenty minutes to the river pools at Canet de Tallada.

Winter is quiet to the point of hibernation. Many masias switch to weekend use only; the bakery van stops coming. Yet the low sun on stone walls turns the entire valley amber, and you’ll have the ridgeline trails to yourself. Frost is rare, but the track to Sant Miquel can ice over in January—carry a lightweight crampon if you’re determined to bag the summit cross.

Getting here, getting out

Girona-Costa Brava airport is 20 min away by hire car; Jet2, Ryanair and TUI serve it from more than twenty UK cities between March and October. Out-of-season travellers usually land at Barcelona; the drive north on the AP-7 is 1 hr 15 min, toll €8. Trains from Barcelona Sants reach Girona in 38 min, but onward buses to Canet d’Adri are scarce—four a day Monday-Friday, none on Sunday—so a taxi from the rank outside Girona station is the realistic last leg (€35 fixed, cash preferred).

Leaving is easier: the same cockerel that woke you will confirm you’re still alive at dawn, ready for the slow roll back to city noise. Between bleats and engine notes you realise Canet hasn’t asked you to tick anything off a list; it has simply handed you 24 hours of breathable air and the sound of tyres on gravel. That’s the souvenir, and it slips into hand luggage without a security check.