Sant Pere de Torelló

The morning shift ended at 6 a.m., and the brick chimney above Colonia Torelló is still warm to the touch. An elderly man in a bar on Carrer Major lays down his hand of cards, finishes his cafè amb llet, and heads uphill towards the beech woods. By half past, the only sound in the plaça is the clatter of shutters opening to the 621-metre air. Sant Pere de Torelló wakes up later than the Costa resorts, and at this altitude the breeze carries the scent of resin, not salt.

Factory bricks and forest trails

Most visitors race down the C-17 towards the sea, but anyone who turns off at kilometre 71 discovers a town that organised itself around water, wool and worship. Nineteenth-century mill owners chose the River Ges for its reliable flow; they built terraced workers’ houses in red brick, imported Manchester looms and paid in company tokens. The factory closed in 1975, yet the chimney still dominates the skyline like a exclamation mark on an otherwise agricultural sentence. You can wander through the colony in ten minutes—no gates, no ticket desk—peering into the old dye shed, now a half-hearted storage unit for second-hand tractors.

Contrast arrives fifty metres beyond the last terrace, where a signpost points to the Camí del Bisbe. Within five minutes the tarmac gives way to a dirt track shaded by hazel and holm oak. The path follows irrigation channels blasted out during the textile boom; today they feed vegetable plots rather than steam engines. Look back and the town appears as a red seam stitched between green hillsides.

Bellmunt or bust

The serious walking starts where the asphalt ends. The signed route to Bellmunt summit leaves from the sports pavilion on the northern edge—allow three hours there-and-back, more if you stop to photograph the Pyrenees lining up like paper cut-outs on the horizon. Gradient averages 14 %, steeper than anything in the Lake District’s national parks, and the only refreshments are what you carry. At the top a tiny chapel built in 1068 squats among communication masts; inside, someone has left a candle stub and a half-full bottle of Catalan brandy. The 360-degree payoff stretches from the rounded hump of Montseny to the snow on Canigó, 80 km away.

Prefer pedals to boots? Forest tracks form a spider web across the municipality. The tourist office (open weekday mornings inside the old town hall) rents hard-tail mountain bikes for €18 a day—book ahead, they keep only six machines in a former prison cell. A gentle introduction pedals south beside the Ges to the hamlet of El Vilar, where the river pools deep enough for a swim if you don’t mind water that never reaches 20 °C.

Market mornings and Monday shutdowns

Saturday is supply day. The produce market in Vic, 19 km south, spills across Plaça Major with 150 stalls: wild mushrooms in October, calcots (giant spring onions) from January to March, and botifarra sausages the size of rolling pins year-round. Arrive before 11 a.m. or the car parks resemble a football crowd. Back in Sant Pere, the sole supermarket closes at 13:30 and doesn’t reopen until 16:30; forget teabags at your peril—there is no late-opening corner shop. On Monday the village eats at home; only Bar Parera keeps the lights on, serving toast, beer and little else.

When the kitchens do fire up, portions favour appetites sharpened by altitude. Can Xarina grills mountain lamb over oak until the skin crackles like parchment; €16 buys half a rib rack, roast potatoes and a thimble of local olive oil strong enough to make you cough. Fussier palates retreat to Fonda Torelló, where the €13 menú del dia includes soup, a main you can swap for grilled chicken, and dessert—yes, they’ll swap crema catalana for ice cream if you ask nicely. Vegetarians face slim pickings: expect omelette or escalivada (smoky aubergine and peppers) on toast.

Layers, not loungers

British drivers who assume all of Catalonia smells of suncream arrive woefully underdressed. Even July nights can dip below 15 °C, while January frosts whiten the windscreens of the motorhomes parked at the €5 aire on the BV-5224. Spring and autumn deliver the best compromise: wildflowers along the river in April, chestnut woods turning copper during October half-term. Easter week brings processions that look modest beside Seville’s spectacles but let you stand within arm’s reach of the thurible—no ticket barriers, no queues.

Rain matters here. Atlantic fronts bump against the pre-Pyrenees and unload; annual precipitation tops 900 mm, double that of Barcelona. Waterproofs live in daypacks year-round, and the clay paths turn slick after a shower—approach the Bellmunt ridge in trainers and you’ll skate like a cartoon character.

Getting there, getting out

No railway reached these valleys, and the bus from Vic arrives twice daily—fine if you enjoy long waits on rural platforms. Car hire from Barcelona airport takes 75 minutes up the C-17 toll road (€8.45 each way) and delivers door-to-door freedom. Petrol is cheaper at the supermarket pumps in Vic than on the motorway; top up before you head north. Winter tyres are not mandatory, but the C-553 climb towards the ski fields of Coll de Bracons can collect snow from December onwards; carry chains or risk a €200 fine.

Staying overnight keeps the rhythm unhurried. There are two small hotels, three rural guesthouses and a clutch of self-catering flats carved from weavers’ cottages; expect €70–€110 for a double with breakfast. One cottage still has the original pulley system used to hoist looms to the first floor—ask for room three if you fancy sleeping beneath 150-year-old beams.

Clock off, log off

Evenings fade early once the sun drops behind Sant Bernat ridge. Mobile reception flickers in the narrow lanes; some Brits treat the dropout as a nuisance, others as detox. By 22:30 the plaça is silent enough to hear the river over the fountain. Sit on the church steps, look uphill at the forested silhouette, and you’ll understand why the card players refused to rush: Sant Pere de Torelló measures time in seasons, not in server speeds. Bring boots, bring layers, and abandon any expectation of souvenir shops—what you take home is the smell of beech smoke and the memory of a town that never learned to shout.