Collsuspina

The church bell strikes noon and the only other sound is a tractor ticking itself cool outside Sant Pere. From the stone bench beside the door you can see clear across the Moianès plateau—oat fields, holm-oak woods and the red-tiled roofs of farmhouses scattered so widely that each seems to own its own horizon. At 901 m above sea level, Collsuspina feels less like a village than a viewing platform with a postcode.

The Plateau That Time Forgot to Commercialise

There is no medieval bridge to photograph, no artisan ice-cream parlour, no souvenir stall selling fridge magnets shaped like bulls. What you get instead is space: roughly four square kilometres of it for every one of the 387 official residents. The houses are built from honey-coloured local stone, roofs pitched to shed winter snow, shutters painted the dark green that photographs never quite render. Many still function as working farms; the smell of manure on a warm morning is authentic, not staged.

The altitude keeps summers breathable—temperatures sit five degrees below Barcelona’s—and winters sharp enough for sporadic snow. When it comes, the village’s single plough clears the main street first; the narrower lanes can stay white for days. Weekenders from the city arrive with sledges strapped to the roof of their 4x4s, discover the only slope is the church ramp, and seem perfectly happy.

Walking Without Way-markers

Collsuspina’s paths were made for farmers, not hikers. That means stone tracks wide enough for a tractor that suddenly shrink to rabbit-width among the oaks. A loose network of these camins connects the hamlet to outlying masías; if you can read Catalan farm gates you’ll work out which footpaths are public. The most straightforward circuit leaves from the plaça, drops past the cemetery and climbs gently through wheat stubble to the ruined mas of Can Vives (25 minutes). From its roofless barn the view opens west to the bell tower of Moià and, on very clear days, the Pyrenees wearing a streak of late snow.

Serious walkers link two loops to create a 12-km figure-of-eight that takes in the stream-cut gorge of Barranc de la Figa. The trail is unsigned but obvious—follow the dry stone walls and keep the watercourse on your left. Boots are advisable after rain; the clay sticks like brick mortar and the sheep have done the rest.

Food at the Edge of Civilisation

There are two places to eat, both on the same street and both closed on Mondays. Can Xarina occupies a former blacksmith’s forge; the original trough now holds ice for bottles of local porró wine. The menu is short and seasonal: wild-mushroom cannelloni in autumn, veal cheek slow-cooked in l’Empordà red, and a crema catalana whose sugar crust is torched at the table so the custard stays cool underneath. Expect to pay €18–22 for three courses at lunch; dinner is pricier and needs reserving even in February.

Across the road, Can Forner opens only at weekends and specialises in grilled escalivada—smoky aubergine and red pepper served still warm with country bread sturdy enough to soak up the olive oil. Vegetarians survive here; vegans struggle. Neither restaurant accepts cards, and the nearest cash machine is a ten-minute drive away in Moià. Bring notes or wash dishes.

What Passes for Entertainment

August brings the Fiesta Mayor, three days when the population quadruples and the village square smells of diesel generators and frying botifarra. A travelling funfair sets up a dodgem track barely wider than the bumper cars; teenagers ride them backwards until the local police shrug and wander off. On the final night a correfoc—devils with sparklers—runs through the narrow streets; bring cotton clothing and avoid synthetic fleece unless you fancy molten polka dots.

January’s Sant Antoni is quieter but stranger. At dawn, farmers lead horses, mules and the occasional pet rabbit into the churchyard for blessing. The priest sprinkles holy water from a plastic watering can while the animals shuffle and sneeze. Visitors are welcome, photographs permitted, but silence is appreciated—this is husbandry, not tourism.

Getting Lost on Purpose

Public transport is the deal-breaker. A single school bus leaves Vic at 07:15, returns at 14:00; miss it and you’re hitching. Driving from Barcelona takes 70 minutes via the C-17 to Vic, then the C-25 towards Manresa. Exit at kilometre 202, follow the brown sign for “Collsuspina” and climb seven kilometres of switch-back. The road is paved but narrow; meet a lorry full of hay bales and someone has to reverse. Parking is free in the plaça; arrive after 11 a.m. on Sunday and you’ll be reversing again, this time down a lane full of day-trippers eating sunflower seeds.

Mobile signal is patchy outside the village centre—download offline maps before you leave the main road. The bakery opens at 07:30 and sells out of croissants by 09:00; the only shop doubles as the post office and keeps siesta hours (13:00–16:00). Overnight options are limited: two small guesthouses, five rooms each, both booked solid during mushroom season (October weekends) and again when Barcelona schools have long weekends. Mid-week bargains exist; single rooms from €50 including breakfast (strong coffee, home-made sponge, local honey).

When to Cut Your Losses

Come in late March for almond blossom and empty trails, or mid-October when the oak woods smell of damp earth and the temperature is made for walking. July and August are hot enough to shrizzle the grass bronze, but the altitude keeps nights cool—bring a jumper even in August. Avoid Easter Monday unless you enjoy traffic jams on the C-25 and queues for coffee that stretch back to the church door.

If you need souvenir shops, guided tours or an interpretive centre with interactive displays, Collsuspina will disappoint. If you measure a place by how thoroughly it silences your phone notifications, you might stay longer than planned. Just remember to fill the tank before you arrive— the nearest petrol station is 17 kilometres away, and the plateau looks even vaster when the fuel light starts to blink.