Moià

At 717 metres, the air in Moià is already thinner than on Barcelona’s seafront when the first barn swallows appear in April, hawking between stone houses that have watched the Moianès plateau since the Middle Ages. Step out before breakfast and you’ll hear nothing louder than a tractor heading for cereal fields that glow emerald after spring rain. By night, the same sky that floods the village square with sodium light in Britain is here a bowl of ink studded with Orion, the Pleiades and, on lucky evenings, the ISS gliding silently overhead.

Beneath the cobbles

The place to start is underground. Les Coves de Moià, five minutes’ walk below Plaça Major, are not show caves with coloured lights and piped music. A local guide unlocks a steel gate, hands out hard hats that still carry the quarry smell of limestone, and leads the way down a ramp cut by archaeologists. Inside, the temperature stays a steady 14 °C year-round—perfect in July when the plateau above is 30 °C and dusty, equally welcome in January if a tramontana wind is slicing across the cereal terraces. Human occupation here goes back 7,000 years; excavations have yielded bone harpoons, polished axes and the remains of three individuals who were buried curled on their sides, knees tucked to chins. The tour lasts 45 minutes, costs €8, and numbers are capped at fifteen so you can actually hear water dripping into the underground pool. Wear trainers; the floor can be slick.

Back on the surface the village makes no effort to dazzle. The Romanesque bell-tower of Sant Sebastià was rebuilt after a 15th-century earthquake, its stone patched so many times it resembles a quilt in grey. Narrow lanes funnel into small squares where the only seating is a stone bench under a plane tree. Look up and you’ll spot 17th-century manor houses with iron balconies painted the same oxide red you see in Toulouse or Turin—evidence of the merchant families who grew wealthy on wheat and later on hemp for rope-making. The tourist office, tucked inside the ajuntament, opens 10:00-14:00 on weekdays only; turn up late and the door is locked, the Wi-Fi dead.

Empty roads and ham radios

Moià’s best asset is what it hasn’t got: traffic. The BV-4311 that climbs from the C-59 carries more cyclists than cars on most mornings. The tarmac is smooth, the gradients rarely above 6%, and every bend opens onto a new prospect—forest of holm oak, a lone masia with storks nesting on the chimney, a field of poppies so red they seem to hum. British cycling groups based in Barcelona swap Strava segments with names like “Moià Wall” (hardly a wall, more a Cotswold-style drag) and meet at the bar in Sant Feliu de Codines for double espressos that cost €1.20, half the price on the coast.

If you prefer walking, pick up the PR-C 124 that starts by the old bridge, Pont Vell. The route forms a 12-kilometre loop through oak woods to the hamlet of Castellcir, where a 19th-century lime kiln has been restored and fitted with an information panel in Catalan, Spanish and slightly eccentric English. Allow three hours, take water—there are no fountains after the first kilometre—and expect to meet more jays than people. In October the path smells of chanterelles; locals in waxed coats appear with wicker baskets and knives, and will nod politely if you ask “Bolets?” but won’t reveal their patches.

Markets, menus and Monday realities

Every Monday the square fills with exactly twenty-two stalls: cheese from Montbrú, socks made in Mataró, honey labelled by the beehive’s GPS co-ordinates, and calcots—the long spring onions that demand a bib and a bowl of romesco. Arrive before 11 a.m. and you can assemble a picnic for under a tenner: a slab of mountain goat’s cheese, a still-warm coca (Catalan flatbread) topped with roasted aubergine, and a half-bottle of local white that slips down like Sauvignon but costs €3. By noon the baker has sold out and the cheese man is wrapping his remaining truckle in newspaper for the bar owners.

Lunch options are limited and proudly un-touristy. Can Pare offers a three-course menú del día for €14: roast chicken with chips, a half-bottle of house red, and crema catalana whose burnt-sugar crust is cracked with a spoon that has seen better decades. Vegetarians get escalivada (smoky peppers and aubergine) and, if they’re lucky, a triangle of fried goat’s cheese. Service is brisk; the waiter will ask “Café?” before you’ve swallowed the last mouthful, and the bill arrives with a saucer of complimentary aguardiente that tastes of aniseed and disappearance.

Evening dining is quieter. El Petit Celler opens at 20:00, later than most British stomachs expect, but the ecological red—made from tempranillo grown at 650 metres—rewards the wait. Burgers come medium unless you plead otherwise, the chips are triple-cooked without claiming to be, and puddings include a chocolate mousse so dense it could anchor a small boat. Credit cards are accepted, but bring cash for bills under €20; the machine “only works sometimes,” the owner shrugs.

Seasons and silence

Spring and autumn are the sweet spots. In April the plateau is a patchwork of green wheat and yellow rape; daytime temperatures hover around 18 °C, perfect for walking without the sweat-fest of August. By mid-October the oak woods turn copper, morning mist pools in the valleys, and the first wood-smoke drifts from farmhouse chimneys. Winter is sharp—night frosts are common, snow arrives a handful of days each year—and the village empties further as locals head for coastal second homes. Summer brings 30 °C heat and the Festa Major (around 24 August), when brass bands march at 02:00 and fireworks rattle windowpanes until dawn. If you value sleep, book elsewhere that week.

Access is straightforward but not idiot-proof. There is no railway; from Barcelona-Sants take the train to Manresa (35 min), then a taxi (25 min, €35) or the hourly L79 bus (40 min, €2.40). Sunday services shrink to four buses, so pre-book your return cab or you’ll be hitch-hiking with cyclists. Drivers follow the C-59 via Caldes de Montbui; the road narrows to a single lane each way after Sant Feliu, and the final 12 km twist like a discarded rope. In fog, allow longer and watch for wild boar that appear without warning, eyes glowing red in the headlights.

Worth it?

Moià offers no postcard cathedral, no souvenir magnets, no cocktail bars. What it does give is altitude-clear air, roads that belong to red kites and road-bikes rather than lorries, and a quiet so complete you can hear your own pulse after dark. Come for two nights, three if you intend to hike every trail, and treat the village as a base rather than a checklist. The caves will satisfy anyone who ever built a den; the market will remind you what tomatoes are supposed to taste like; the night sky will make you wonder why you put up with orange clouds at home. Leave before August if fireworks and all-night drumming aren’t your thing, and remember to pocket a couple of euro notes—because when the card machine says “no,” the barman won’t blink twice.