Castellterçol

The church bell strikes eleven and the only other sound is a farmer loading crates of artichokes onto a battered white van. From the stone bench outside Sant Jaume, you can see the whole of Castellterçol: two grocery shops, three cafés, a pharmacy and a bakery whose door hasn't closed since 1926. This is not the Catalonia of package coaches and seafront paella. At 726 m, on a wind-combed plateau 70 km inland from Barcelona, the village feels closer to the Pyrenees than to the Mediterranean, even though the coast is only forty-five minutes' drive away.

Locals say the place runs on two speeds: weekday and weekend. From Monday to Friday the 2-700 permanent inhabitants keep to the old timetable—doors open at seven, coffee at ten, lunch at two, cards at eight. On Saturdays the population quietly doubles. City cars with Barcelona plates nose into narrow garages, garden gates click open, and suddenly every other table on Plaça Major speaks Catalan with a softer, urban accent. These are the segones residències, the second-home crowd who come for clean air, starlit nights and the knowledge that no one will try to sell them a sombrero.

Stone, Grain and Sky

The Moianès plateau is cereal country. From October to June the fields around Castellterçol roll like a yellow-grey sea, broken only by dark islands of holm-oak and the square towers of medieval farmhouses. Many of these masies are still working properties; others have been converted into weekend retreats where lawyers grow tomatoes and complain about the price of firewood. Either way, they set the tone: low, stone-built, practical. Even the parish church looks more like a fortified barn than a place of worship, its Romanesque nave patched so many times that historians have given up dating the bricks.

Inside the old quarter streets taper until two people have to turn sideways to pass. Washing lines zig-zag overhead, dripping onto the uneven flagstones below. There are no souvenir shops, no mock-Tudor pubs, no estate agents pushing "luxury villas with stunning views". What you do find is the tiny Museu del Pagès (Farmers' Museum) squeezed into a former granary, where a retired teacher will show you hand-forged ploughs and explain, in rapid Catalan, how rye was threshed with mules. Entry is free; donations go towards roof repairs.

Walking, Pedalling, Ballooning

A spider's web of farm tracks fans out from the village, each one signed with the red-and-white stripes of the Catalan hiking federation. The shortest loop, the 5 km Ruta de les Masies, is flat enough for push-chairs and takes in two stone crosses, a disused ice-house and a field where wild asparagus appears in April. Serious walkers can keep going east along the GR-3 long-distance path to the cliffs of Tavertet, or west towards the mushroom forests of Montseny. Mountain bikers head north on the old charcoal-muleteers' road—rough, stony, and mercifully shadeless, so take more water than you think you'll need.

For a softer adventure, hot-air balloons launch at dawn from a paddock behind the football pitch. The burners roar, wicker baskets creak, and within minutes the village shrinks to a grey dice on a green baize. On clear mornings Montserrat's serrated ridge floats like a cardboard cut-out to the south, while the Pyrenees form a white wall along the northern horizon. Flights last an hour and finish with champagne and a tractor ride back to town; prices start around €165—roughly half what the same operators charge over the Costa Brava.

What You're Eating

Castellterçol's restaurants assume you have driven here specifically to eat, not to be entertained. Can Garriga sets the standard: checkered cloths, mismatched chairs, and a handwritten menu that changes according to what appeared in the market. Winter means escudella, a thick broth of pork, chickpeas and cabbage that arrives in a soup tureen big enough for a family of four. Summer brings coca de recapte, a thin dough topped with roasted aubergine and peppers—think pizza that went on a health kick. Expect to pay €12-15 for the three-course menú del dia, including wine, water and the sort of bread you only get when the baker lives two doors away.

If you are self-catering, turn up on Sunday morning when the mercat pagès fills the upper end of Carrer Major. Local farmers lay out whatever the week produced: still-dirty lettuces, eggs with feather fragments, cheese wrapped in fig leaves. One stall sells longaniza, a slim pork sausage scented with mountain herbs; another offers honey labelled only with the postcode of the beehive. Bring cash—cards provoke sighs—and your own basket if you don't want to juggle paper cones of tomatoes.

When the Weather Turns

Altitude has its drawbacks. Between December and March the plateau can sit under a lid of grey cloud for days, the temperature hovering just above freezing. Roads ice over overnight; walking boots become essential. On the other hand, July and August stay several degrees cooler than Barcelona, and evenings are mosquito-free. Spring is the sweet spot—green wheat, almond blossom, and skylarks—though Easter weekend draws half of Catalonia to the countryside; book accommodation early or arrive mid-week.

Rain arrives suddenly. One minute you are photographing poppies, the next you are sprinting for a barn while the track turns to chocolate mousse. The village provides clear plastic ponchos at the tourist office (€3), a tacit admission that British visitors refuse to let precipitation ruin a perfectly good walk.

Getting There, Getting Out

No train line reaches Castellterçol; the nearest station is 18 km away in Granollers, itself a 40-minute ride from Barcelona Sants. From Granollers a twice-daily bus winds up the C-17, but timetables assume you have nothing better to do than wait on rural roundabouts. Hiring a car is simpler: take the AP-7 north from the airport, fork onto the C-17 towards Vic, then follow the BV-5306 for the final six kilometres of hairpins. Parking is free and usually easy, except on festival days when every verge becomes a Fiat showroom.

Leave time for the detour to Castellcir, four kilometres west. Its eleventh-century church perches on a rocky spur with views clear back to Montjuïc, and the single bar still serves coffee for €1.20—price-tag unchanged since the euro arrived. Then again, you could simply stay put, order another café amb llet, and watch the light slide across the grain fields while the village returns to its quiet, ordinary self. No souvenir required.