Santa Maria d'Oló

The church bell strikes noon and the only other sound is a tractor changing gear somewhere below the hill. Santa Maria d'Oló, 546 metres above sea level and sixty-five kilometres from the nearest whiff of saltwater, doesn’t do noise. It does stone, sky and the sort of silence that makes a Londoner wonder if their ears have packed up.

This isn’t the Catalonia of Gaudí crowds or beachfront paella. The Moianès region only became an official comarca in 2015, and the village—1,050 inhabitants, plus dogs—still feels as if the paperwork hasn’t quite arrived. What has turned up, over centuries, are farmhouses. They dot the slopes like sturdy stone mushrooms: some still worked, many converted into weekend refuges for Barcelona families who leave their city lights on Friday and don’t reopen the laptop until Sunday night.

A Hilltop That Never Needed a Postcard

The old centre is five minutes end to end. Plaça de l’Església is more scruffy than chocolate-box: a handful of benches, a pharmacy with a 1980s awning, and the parish church whose bell tower you can spot from any approach road. Inside, the building is a palimpsest—Romanesque bones, Gothic ribs, Baroque touches slapped on later when the local wool money rolled in. No ticket desk, no audio guide, just push the heavy door and hope the caretaker hasn’t nipped home for lunch.

Downhill, Carrer Major widens enough for one car and a nervous pedestrian. Stone portals swallow you into cool hallways smelling of woodsmoke and rabbit stew. The manor houses aren’t museums; they’re simply lived-in, with satellite dishes bolted onto 17th-century façades and bikes leant against heraldic shields. If you want Instagram perfection, go to Besalú. If you want to see how a place ages without polishing itself for visitors, stay here.

Footpaths, Not Checklists

The tourist office (open 10–14, Tue–Sat, if the volunteer isn’t sick) stocks a single A4 sheet: “10 Walks from Santa Maria d’Oló”. Distances range from 3 km to 18 km, gradients gentle enough for anyone who owns a pair of trainers. Yellow-daubed waymarks lead past oat fields, small oak woods and dry-stone walls patched together without cement. The only traffic jam is a herd of rust-coloured cows crossing to the water trough.

Route 4, the circular to Muntanyola, takes three hours and delivers you to a hamlet consisting of a ruined castle, a working farm and a bar that opens on Saturdays. The farmer’s wife sells chilled cans of Estrella for €1; she’ll pour them into plastic glasses if you look trustworthy. Bring cash—card machines haven’t climbed this high.

Cyclists favour the gravel farm tracks that link Oló with neighbouring Collsuspina and L’Estany. A morning loop of 35 km gains less than 400 m of ascent, so you can still pretend you’re on holiday, not training for the Tour. Mountain-bike hire is theoretically possible in Moià, 12 km away, but ring ahead: the shop closes when the owner’s football team plays.

What Passes for Lunch

Expect no Michelin stars. The village’s single restaurant, Cal Xic, keeps Spanish hours: lunch 13:30–15:30, dinner 20:30–22:00, closed Monday and whenever the family feels like it. Inside, the menu is chalked on a blackboard and heavily weighted toward beef. Try the estofado de ternera—slow-cooked shin so soft you could spread it on bread. A plate costs €14 and comes with chipped terracotta bowls of chickpeas and spinach. Pudding is usually crema catalana, torched to order so the sugar forms a glassy lid that cracks like cheap toffee.

If the restaurant is shut, the bakery on Carrer de la Font sells flat pastries called coques: strips of brioche topped with candied squash or a thin smear of sobresada (spreadable chorizo, milder than it sounds). Buy two, plus a carton of cold horchata, and you’ve got picnic fuel for under €5. The baker shuts at 14:00 sharp; after that, the nearest loaf is in Moià.

When the Village Throws a Party

The Festa Major, around 15 August, triples the population. neighbours who emigrated to Girona or Barcelona return to sit on folding chairs in the street, arguing over which year the fireworks set fire to the pine trees. Events start with a dawn flute procession—someone walks the streets playing a tible, a Catalan oboe that sounds like a goose with sinus trouble—peak with a communal paella for 800, and end with a disco in the sports pavilion that thumps until the Guardia Civil suggest 03:00 is quite late enough. Visitors are welcome; bring earplugs and a tolerance for rum-and-cola.

Spring brings the Moianès Mushroom Fair (late April), when the plaça fills with stalls selling wild fungi, truffle honey and tiny tools you never knew you needed for brushing dirt off a cep. Admission is free; tasting plates are €3 each. Autumn is calmer, the fields turning the colour of digestive biscuits, ideal if you prefer your villages without amplified music.

Getting There, Staying Over

No railway line climbs into these hills. From the UK, fly to Barcelona, pick up a hire car at Terminal 2 and head northwest on the C-16 and C-25. Tolls total €8; the turn-off at Moià is well signed, after which the C-1410b wriggles uphill for 12 km. The whole drive takes 75 minutes, assuming you don’t meet a combine harvester.

Without wheels, take the Rodalies train from Barcelona-Plaça Catalunya to Manresa (hourly, 1 h 10 m), then pre-book a taxi—Radio Taxi Manresa (+34 938 774 848) charges about €25 each way. Buses exist only on school days and refuse to carry rucksacks the size of a labrador.

Accommodation is limited. Can Puxó is a 17th-century farmhouse turned guesthouse on the edge of the village: six rooms, stone floors, duvets thick enough for November nights. Doubles from €90 including breakfast (fresh bread, local cheese, honey from the owner’s hives). They’ll pack a picnic if you ask the night before. Budget travellers can rent a mattress in the municipal albergue (€18) but must bring a sleeping sheet and tolerate 22:00 lights-out enforced by a retired headmistress.

The Honest Verdict

Santa Maria d’Oló will not change your life. It offers no beach, no cocktail list, no ancient synagogue to tick off. What it does give, generously, is space to breathe. Walk the farm tracks at dusk when the sun flattens into amber strips behind Montserrat, and you’ll understand why locals who left still come back for weekends. Just remember: shops close early, English is scarce, and the most exciting sight is probably a stork on the church tower. Pack walking boots, a phrase-book and low expectations of nightlife. You’ll walk away relaxed—and wondering why more places haven’t worked out that quiet can be a commodity too.