Dosrius

The church bells strike noon, yet the only sound on Dosrius’s main street is a single scooter echoing off stone walls. Thirty-five minutes earlier you were jostling for space on the Barcelona metro; now the air smells of resin and wood smoke, and the temperature has dropped three degrees. That abrupt hush is the first thing visitors register—followed quickly by the realisation that the map is useless: lanes wriggle uphill, houses are numbered by whim, and every third dog is called Boira (Catalan for “fog”).

At 150 m above sea level, Dosrius sits where the granite Serralada Litoral meets the coastal plain. It isn’t dramatically high, yet the relief is enough to blunt summer heat and trap Atlantic weather, so mornings arrive misty and afternoons can flip from 28 °C to a fleece-requiring 18 °C once the sun slips behind the Corredor ridge. Pack layers; locals still tease the Cardiff family who arrived in flip-flops one August and had to buy socks in neighbouring Argentona.

Walking Off the Menu del Día

Footpaths radiate from the square like spokes. The easiest loop, marked with green-and-white flashes, threads 4 km through holm-oak and pine to the Ermita de Sant Mateu, a stone chapel wedged on a spur. Halfway up, the trees part and you can pick out the glint of the Maresmediterranean—twenty minutes’ drive, but a world away from the chiringuito-blighted shoreline. On clear winter days, Mallorca floats on the horizon; more often, the sea is simply a strip of hammered pewter.

Harder options fork into the Montnegre park. The GR-5 long-distance track crosses the municipality, so you can stitch together an all-day hike to the 500 m summit of El Corredor, returning via the cork-oak forest where pigs still graze for acorns. Bring a picnic: once you leave the village, cafés evaporate. Sunday-morning market stalls sell pa de pagès (crusty country loaves) and xoriço spicy enough to make your rucksack smell for weeks; stock up before ten, because stallholders pack up promptly to open the bars.

Mountain-bikers share the same dirt roads. Tracks are well signed but rocky—expect punctures. Road cyclists prefer the BV-5101 loop: 28 km, 400 m of climb, tarmac smooth enough for a café-con-leche hand-off at Canyamars without leaving the saddle. In October, the route is littered with squashed chestnuts; in February, grit washed down by ganxos (short, sharp storms) can catch a front wheel. Insurance that covers Spanish private hospitals is worth the paper it’s printed on.

Stone, Lime and a Fortified Farmhouse

History here is measured in dry-stone. The parish church of Sant Martí began life in the twelfth century; successive rebuilds have left it a hybrid—Romanesque base, Baroque bell-stage, twentieth-century roof tiles the colour of burnt toast. Inside, the cool darkness smells of candle wax and the previous night’s incense. Opening hours are elastic; if the door is locked, the bar opposite keeps the key on a hook marked clau, honesty-system style.

A ten-minute uphill detour brings you to Can Lleonart, a sixteenth-century fortified farmhouse whose tower pokes above the canopy like a stone cigar. It is still privately owned—no tea-towel gift shop, no audio-guía—so you view from the lane, peering through iron gates at stonework pitted by Civil War bullets. The track continues to an abandoned vineyard where the priorat vines have gone feral; black grapes the size of peas ripen in October and the lucky passer-by can harvest a hatful.

Smaller chapels—Sant Iscle, Santa Victòria—sit on secondary ridges, built when a Sunday walk meant something more obligatory. Each is unlocked on its saint’s day only; the rest of the year they serve as stone way-markers, their terraces handy for a mid-hike orange break. Carry rubbish out: there are no bins, and goats will eat plastic with enthusiasm.

Eating, or Why the Garlic Is Optional

Dosrius’s restaurant head-count hovers around half a dozen. Menus are printed daily, prices hover at €15–18 for three courses plus wine, and “vegetarian” still elicits a polite pause. Masia Can Rimblas, set in an old threshing floor, turns out charcoal chicken so plainly seasoned it could pass for a Home-County barbecue—except the portion feeds three. Ask for sense allioli if you’d rather skip the throat-catching garlic mayo; servers understand and won’t judge.

For lighter bites, Bar Plaça does coca de recapte, a thin bread topped with roasted aubergine and red pepper—think pizza that went to art school. Paired with a canya (small draught beer) it works as late breakfast; the same terrace doubles as evening soccer commentary central, volume up, neighbours leaning from balconies to shout at the referee. Kitchens close at 4 pm and reopen nowhere before 8; plan accordingly or you’ll be buying crisps from the vending machine outside the town hall.

Autumn brings setas. Wild-mushroom hunters disappear into the pines at dawn, baskets labelled in permanent marker. Restaurants post chalkboards listing rovellons (saffron-milk caps), fredolics (yellowfoot) and cama-secs (literally “dry-legs”). If you forage solo, carry a pocket guide—two species here can wreck your liver faster than a Friday-night bar crawl in Magaluf.

Getting There, Getting Out

Barcelona airport to Dosrius is 45 minutes by hire car: pick up at T1, swing onto the C-32 towards Girona, exit 122, then wriggle up the BV-5101. The final 5 km narrows to a single-track lane with stone walls; meet a bus and someone must reverse. Automatic gearbox recommended—hill-starts on 12 % gradients get old quickly. Petrol is cheaper at the airport than on the coast, so fill up before returning.

Public transport exists but requires patience: train to Mataró, then Sagalés bus 742. The last service back from the coast leaves at 19:30; miss it and a taxi is €35. Overnight parking in the village is free and unrestricted; ignore the faded “pay & display” sign—locals have been trying to remove it since 2011.

Accommodation splits between stone cottages and purpose-built retreats. Serendipia, two kilometres outside the centre, hosts juice-fasts and yoga weekends for mainly British clients; Wi-Fi is patchy, which is either bug or feature. Casa Om offers self-catering in a restored mill—wood-burner for February, plunge pool for July. Both get booked by Barcelona escapees months ahead; if they’re full, Argentona (ten minutes down the hill) has smarter hotels, though you’ll sacrifice dawn silence.

The Catch (There Always Is)

Dosrius is quiet—deliberately so. After 11 pm the only nightlife is the church clock counting the quarters. Rain can pin you indoors; when streams overflow, the smell of damp dog lingers for days. Mobile coverage fades in the narrow lanes, and the nearest cash machine is back down the mountain. Come for unplugged walking and early nights, not for DJs or dodgem boats.

Yet for travellers who measure a good holiday in kilometres walked, pages read and cafés con leche drunk without checking email, Dosrius delivers. You rise to mist over pine tops, buy bread still warm, and by noon can choose between forest silence or a swim in the Med. Return in summer if you want tomatoes that taste of sunshine; choose October for mushrooms and fire-coloured chestnut woods; pick March if you fancy almond blossom against snow-tipped Montseny. Whichever the month, keep a fleece in the rucksack and a few coins for the honesty-box eggs at the lane end—payment optional, trust compulsory, and the most Catalan souvenir you’ll find.