Santa Eulàlia de Riuprimer

The 11 a.m. bell from the parish church doesn’t just mark the hour in Santa Eulàlia de Riuprimer—it empties the fields. Tractors pause on the dirt tracks that ribbon the wheat, and anyone within earshot turns the engine off while the bronze note rolls across the plateau. Five minutes later work resumes, but the interval tells you everything: this is a parish, not a resort, and time is still negotiated with the sky and the soil.

At 568 m above sea level, the village sits on the last easy ground before the land wrinkles upwards into the Montseny massif. The Pyrenees are visible on crisp winter mornings; in July the view dissolves into a pale heat haze that smells of cut straw and dry rosemary. The altitude knocks the edge off summer—nights drop to 16 °C even in August—yet it is low enough for almond and olive trees to survive, their trunks twisted into question marks by the tramuntana wind that arrives without warning from the north.

The Map and the Mistake

Sat-navs routinely send first-time visitors to a different Santa Eulàlia—one with yachts, nightclubs and an altogether louder reputation 200 km east in Ibiza. Double-check the postcode (08569) before you commit to a non-refundable hire car. Once the correct coordinates are locked in, the drive from Barcelona El Prat takes 75 minutes: autopista AP-7 to Vic, then a straight 12-minute hop west on the C-25. There is no railway stop and only three buses a day from Vic, none on Sunday, so wheels are essential. Parking is free and painless—pull in anywhere along C/ Major wide enough for a tractor to pass.

Stone, Tile and Working Farms

Expect no chocolate-box arcades or souvenir stalls. The centre is a single elongated square shaded by plane trees planted after the Civil War. Houses are dressed in the muted palette of the region: ochre render, grey stone corners, terracotta tiles curved like Arabic script. Most are still family farms; the ground floor stores feed, the upper floors contain grandparents. Walk softly—dogs nap in doorways and are unimpressed by Instagram squats.

The 16th-century church of Santa Eulàlia stands at the upstream end, its bell tower patched with iron staples after an 1853 earthquake. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees. The single nave smells of beeswax and the previous night’s espígol incense; look for a tiny Romanesque window reset in the south wall, the only fragment that survived a Gothic rebuild. Opening hours are optimistic—if the door is locked, enquire in Bar Can Ton; the owner keeps a key and will finish her coffee before letting you in.

Paths, Not Postcards

Footpaths radiate from the church like spokes. The shortest loop, signed simply “Passejada a les Masies”, is 5 km of level farm track that passes three working masias: Cal Pinyater, Cal Giner and the 14th-century Cal Marçal. Gates are fitted with cats—Catalan spring latches—lift, pass through, close. Wheat gives way to sunflowers, then to regimented apple orchds whose fruit ends up in cider brewed two valleys away. Take water; shade is sporadic and there is no kiosk. The route is way-marked by faded yellow splodges that could be either paint or tractor damage, but you are never more than 45 minutes from the square.

Cyclists use the same web of lanes. Early May sees the village swallowed by the Volta Ciclista a Catalunya training camp—expect Lycra pelotons and the smell of embrocation at seven o’clock sharp. The rest of the year the roads are empty enough to ride side-by-side, chatting in English without a car appearing. A gentle 25 km circuit south drops to the River Ter floodplain and returns via the medieval bridge at Roda de Ter, where ice-cold orxata is served in recycled beer mugs.

What You’ll Eat (and How to Order It)

Catalan dominates the blackboards; staff switch to Spanish only under duress and English rarely. Download the Google Translate camera pack offline before you set out, or simply point and trust. Two bars serve food, nothing else until Vic.

Bar Can Ton opens at 07:00 for farmers and does not close until the last drinker leaves, usually around 23:00. Order the montadito de secreto ibérico—juicy pork shoulder flash-grilled and jammed inside a roll that costs €3.50. A glass of chilled white from Penedès adds another €2.20; house rule is to pay when you finish, not when you order. Cards accepted since 2022, but the machine fails during thunderstorms—keep a €20 note folded in your pocket.

Cal Xoriguer, opposite the church, specialises in calçots from February to April. You’ll be given a bib for a reason: charred leeks are stripped, dipped in romesco and lowered into the mouth like a fire-eater’s torch. Twenty calçots, lamb chops, potato and crema catalana set menu costs €28; book a day ahead (phone, WhatsApp or walk-in—no website). Outside season they grill butifarra negre (blood sausage) and serve it with white beans that taste of smoke and forest mushrooms.

Monday is the dead day—both kitchens close and even the bakery shutters at noon. Stock up in Vic’s covered market beforehand: fuet sausages, mountain honey and recuit (fresh curd cheese) travel happily in a cool box.

Seasons, Crowds and the Odd Downpour

Spring brings a pastel haze of almond blossom and the risk of a suddern temporal—a storm that can dump 40 mm in an hour, turning clay tracks to chocolate mousse. Autumn is the sweet spot: clear skies, grain stubble gold against dark ploughland, mushrooms pushing through the oak leaf litter. August is warm but rarely brutal; the bigger nuisance is the tabano horsefly whose bite feels like a stapler. Winter is short, sharp and frequently beautiful—night frosts silver the roofs, but the sun still reaches 14 °C by midday. Snow arrives perhaps one day each February, enough for delighted children to sled on tractor bonnets, never enough to block the road.

Crowds are theoretical. Even during the February Festa Major the population barely doubles. Visitors come from Vic for the evening sardana dance in the square, drink one cubata and melt away. August’s summer festival adds a foam party for teenagers, held in the municipal car park and hosed down by the fire brigade at midnight—earplums useful if your rented cottage faces the square.

A Final Warning and a Parting Treat

Do not arrive hungry at 16:00 expecting lunch—kitchens shut after 15:30 and reopen only for supper after 20:00. Do expect, at any hour, the smell of someone’s garden wood-fire drifting across the lanes, and the faint metallic chime of the church bell counting the quarters even when no one seems to be listening. If you leave before dusk you will miss the best free show: swifts slicing between the plane trees, the sky fading from terracotta to bruised violet, and the village lights flicking on one by one, powered by a hydro plant fed by the very stream that gave the place its name. Riuprimer means “first river”; stand on the low bridge west of the square at twilight and you will understand why the Romans stopped here, and why, two millennia later, the traffic still keeps rolling past.