Orís

The church bell strikes noon, yet only two cars pass through Orís in the next hour. At 750 metres above sea level, this scatter of stone farmsteads operates on a timetable that has little to do with the clock on your phone. Shepherds move stock between fields, a tractor coughs to life, and the silence that follows feels almost theatrical after the steady hum of Barcelona, 90 minutes away.

The Lay of the Land

Orís sits on the northern lip of Osona, a comarca that most British visitors speed through on the way to the Pyrenees. The village proper holds maybe forty houses; the rest of the municipality is a jigsaw of holm-oak woods, meadow strips and isolated masías whose roofs you glimpse only when the road tilts just so. From several tracks—unmarked but driveable in a normal car—the Sau reservoir appears suddenly, a sheet of pewter trapped between cliffs. The famous flooded bell tower you have seen on Instagram belongs to Sant Romà de Sau, two kilometres away as the crow flies, yet the best angle is often from Orís side, especially after heavy rain when the water laps at the lower hay meadows.

Altitude makes the weather here a game of two halves. Mornings can be ten degrees cooler than Vic on the plain; by 3 p.m. in July the difference has vanished and you will sweat on the climb up to the col de Malrem. Frost is routine from November to March; if the Serra de Cabrerès catches a dump of snow, the BV-5206 becomes entertainingly slippery. Carry chains or be prepared to leave the car at the junction and walk the last 3 km—perfectly feasible, and quicker than trying to coax a hire Corsa uphill on summer tyres.

Walking Without Waymarks

Officially, Orís has three sign-posted footpaths. Unofficially, the entire hillsides are laced with drove roads that date from the Middle Ages. Start at the church square, note the altitude on your watch, then follow the concrete lane west past the last lamppost. Within twenty minutes you are on a stone track that corkscrews down to the Sau at 440 m, a thigh-burning 300 m drop that repays the effort with kingfisher flashes and the echo of feral goats on the cliff opposite. Turn round when you like; there is no ticket office, no café, and rarely anyone else except the odd local retrieving a hunting dog.

If that sounds too energetic, stick to the ridge. A gentle 5 km loop leaves the village past Cal Gavatx, a seventeenth-century mas whose stone trough still waters passing herds, then contours through oak until it meets the forest road to Santa Creu de Tona. You will share it with the occasional mountain-biker from Manlleu; stand aside, exchange a “bon dia”, and notice how quickly the tyre noise dies back into birdsong.

What Passes for Sights

Sant Martí church is open only on Sunday for mass, but the side door yields to a push any day. Inside, the single nave smells of candle wax and damp stone; look for the Romanesque impost blocks reused in the later rebuild, their chevrons half-eroded by centuries of brooms and bleach. That is about it for curated heritage, and frankly the building is happier for the lack of audio guides. The real exhibits are outside: dry-stone walls that climb impossible gradients, threshing circles now swallowed by brambles, a 1950s concrete picnic table installed by some long-dead mayor with a vision of motoring day-trippers.

Those determined to spend money should lower their expectations. There is no gift shop, no churros stall, and the village bar opens Thursday to Sunday, hours approximate. Bring water and a sandwich, or time your walk to finish in neighbouring Tavernoles where La Fonda serves a three-course menú del dia for €16, wine included. Their botifarra with white beans tastes better after 10 km of uphill slog; trust the process.

Seasons, Quiet and Otherwise

Spring arrives late. By mid-April the oak buds are still tight, but the hay meadows suddenly fluorescent with ox-eye daisies make up for the wait. Weekend traffic is minimal—mostly Catalan families checking on ancestral land they hope one day to refurbish. May brings out the nightingales; if you camp wild (tolerated if discreet, fires absolutely not) the valley after dark is an avian opera house.

Autumn is the photographers’ window. The deciduous oaks turn the colour of burnt toast, morning mist pools in the reservoir, and the low sun strikes the cliff of Tavertet so the whole escarpment glows like a coal seam. Saturdays see a trickle of walkers from Girona; come mid-week and you will have the stone huts to yourself.

Summer is doable but demands early starts. By 11 a.m. the shade has retreated to the bottom of the gorge; the return haul from the lake becomes a trudge. August weekends attract day-trippers looking for free lake access, cars parked wherever the verge widens. They leave by 7 p.m.; the village then reverts to its default soundtrack of cicadas and distant chain-saws.

Winter is bluntly honest. Daylight lasts from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.; north-facing paths hold treacherous ice well into February. Yet the air is so clear you can pick out the Telecom Tower above Barcelona, 70 km south. On windless evenings wood-smoke hangs in the streets like a stage set, and every window glows—proof that someone still lives here year-round.

Getting There, Staying Over

No train reaches Orís. From Barcelona Sants take the R3 to Vic (55 min), then taxi (€45) or the twice-daily bus to Tavernoles, 4 km away. Having wheels helps, but the roads are narrow; meet a combine harvester round a bend and one of you is reversing 200 m. Petrol is sold only in Vic—fill up before the climb.

Accommodation is thin. Cal Serni, a restored farmhouse two minutes from the church, rents two doubles at €70 including breakfast (home-made yoghurt, local honey, coffee strong enough to stain a spoon). Otherwise the nearest beds are in Sant Pere de Torelló or at the Sau reservoir’s camping, open March–October, €21 for two people plus tent. Wild camping is tolerated above the 600 m contour if you pack out everything, including orange peel.

Parting Shots

Orís will not change your life. It offers no epiphany, no bucket-list tick, barely a decent fridge magnet. What it does provide is a calibrated antidote to the Costa buffet queue: real altitude, real weather, real people who will nod good morning and then leave you alone. Turn up with sturdy shoes, a sense of how small you are among limestone and sky, and the willingness to eat lunch when the bar opens—not when you fancy it. The village has been here since before the reservoir, before Instagram, before Britain worried about roaming charges. It will still be here when we have moved on to the next distraction, the bell still striking noon at its own pace.