Seva

The church bell strikes noon and the only reply is a dog barking somewhere beyond the stone arcades of Carrer Major. In Seva, 663 metres above the Barcelona plain, siesta starts early and lasts until the shadows stretch. This is not the Catalonia of Gaudí queues or beach towels on every chair; it is the buffer zone between the cereal fields of Vic and the first proper wall of the Montseny massif, where the air smells of damp oak and wood smoke even in June.

Most visitors race past the turning on the C-1415, bound for the better-known card-swipe car parks of the Montseny Natural Park. Those who do swing left find a working village of 3,800 souls whose cafés still price a café con leche at €1.40 and whose bakery sells coca (a flat, olive-oil-enriched bread) still warm from a brick oven installed in 1953. Tourism exists, but it is treated as a neighbour who drops by rather than the main source of income.

Between Plain and Peak

The geography shapes the day. Dawn brings cool air that drifts down from the beech woods; by eleven the sun has burned it off and the riera (seasonal stream) that bisects the village is reduced to a string of emerald pools. Afternoon clouds stack up behind Turó de l’Home, the 1,700 m summit that dominates the southern skyline, and by teatime the first drops of summer thunder splat onto the dusty football pitch behind the school. Carry a light jacket even in August; temperatures slide ten degrees the moment the sun ducks behind the ridge.

That altitude also explains the stone farmhouses scattered through the pine belt above the houses. Many date from the 16th and 17th centuries, built when cereal grown on the plain paid for thick walls and slate roofs capable of shrugging off snow. Most are still private, but the public footpaths that skirt their threshing floors give a close-up view: hand-hewn oak beams, horseshoes embedded in doorposts, bread ovens the size of British garden sheds. Look for the double-staircase masías—a sign that two families once shared the same structure, each claiming a separate floor.

Walking Without the Coach-Party Echo

The town hall keeps a roughly photocopied map pinned to the noticeboard, but the tracks themselves are signed well enough to follow without GPS. A favourite circuit heads south-east along the GR-5 long-distance path, climbing through alzina (holm oak) and roure (oak) to the Font de l’Elder, a spring whose water tastes faintly of iron. Allow two hours there and back; the gradient is gentle but relentless, and the reward is a picnic table with a view across the Plana de Vic that on clear days reaches the Pyrenees.

For something shorter, follow the yellow-diamond waymarks upstream beside the riera until the houses give way to allotments and then to meadows grazed by caramel-coloured cows. Fifteen minutes of easy strolling brings you to Gorg de la Pastera, a waist-deep swimming hole edged with flat rocks ideal for a paperback and a ham-and-tomato baguette. Local teenagers leap from the railway bridge on weekends; the water is brisk even in July.

Mountain-bikers can link forest roads westward to the village of Vilanova de Sau and the famous reservoir with its half-submerged church tower. The loop is 28 km with 700 m of ascent; download the Wikiloc file before you leave Wi-Fi coverage because the laminated boards at junctions have long since faded to parchment.

What (and When) to Eat

Seva’s restaurants number three, and two of them open only at weekends outside high season. Mid-week visitors should shop first thing: the Carnisseria Soler counter closes at 1.30 p.m. sharp, and the Forn de Pa sells out of coques topped with roasted red peppers by late morning. Self-caterers are well served: local longaniza costs around €12 a kilo, and the village grocer stocks fesols (buttery white beans) grown in the neighbouring Moianès plateau.

If the calendar says Friday, book a table at Can Parellada, a stone-walled dining room hung with black-and-white photos of the 1952 floods. The set lunch (€16) might start with pa amb tomàquet and end with crema catalana, but the star is truita de riu—river trout caught in the Tordera and grilled with slivered almonds. British palates wary of botifarra stuffed with pigs’ brains can relax: the kitchen keeps offal to a minimum and will swap chips for the unfamiliar mongetes (white beans) if asked politely.

Sunday lunchtime is the social event of the week. Families who have left for Barcelona or Girona drive up the switchbacks, fill the terraced tables and linger over three-hour menus while children chase footballs across the square. Arrive before 2 p.m. or risk a 45-minute wait and the last slice of coca.

A Calendar Measured by Fire and Hooves

The year kicks off with Els Tres Tombs in mid-January. Horses, mules and even a petting-zoo donkey are blessed in front of the church, then led three times round the plaza to honour Sant Antoni, patron of animals. The scent of glühwein-style vi brûlot (wine flambéed with cinnamon and citrus) drifts through the cold air; sample a plastic cup for €2 and stand well back when the riders crack their whips.

August belongs to Festa Major. Brass bands play on improvised stages, correfocs (devil-costumed locals) sprint through narrow streets hurling fireworks, and the village square becomes an open-air cinema at 11 p.m. sharp. Accommodation within the centre is cheap—until you realise the pyrotechnics continue until 2 a.m. Light sleepers should book rooms at the Montanyá Hotel, ten minutes uphill; its pool is the coolest place for children after a morning on dusty trails, and double glazing spares guests the 3 a.m. drum parade.

Autumn brings the Fira de la Castanya (chestnut fair) in neighbouring El Brull, a 15-minute drive. Stallholders roast the nuts over cut-down oil drums and sell them in paper cones for €2.50. Combine the trip with a walk through the Fageda d’El Pardal beech wood, where the leaf fall turns the path copper and the only sound is the crackle of husks underfoot.

Getting There, Getting Cash, Getting Fed

Public transport works—just. From Barcelona-Sants take the Rodalies train to Granollers (35 min), then the Sagalés 410 bus to Seva (40 min, four departures Monday–Friday, two on Saturday, none on Sunday). The last return bus leaves at 6 p.m.; miss it and a taxi costs €45. Car hire is easier: follow the AP-7 north, exit 13, and you are parked outside the bakery in 55 minutes. Petrol is cheaper at the Esclat hypermarket in Granollers than on the motorway.

There is no cash machine in the village. The nearest caixer is in Centelles, 7 km down the hill; the bakery and the small supermarket accept cards, but the Saturday market stallholders do not. Bring euros or plan a detour.

Accommodation splits between two options: the Montanyá Hotel & Spa above the east side of town (pool, free parking, family rooms, usually £90–110 on booking sites) and a handful of rural casas rurales booked through the Catalan tourism board. Expect stone floors, beams low enough to bang a head, and Wi-Fi that wheezes when it rains. Weekends in May and October fill up with Barcelona couples seeking cooler air; reserve at least a fortnight ahead.

Worth the Detour?

Seva will never make the cover of a glossy “Top Ten Catalan Hideaways” spread. The high street is tidy but short, the museum is a single room above the library, and night-life consists of elderly men playing dominó under the plane trees. Yet that is precisely why it suits walkers who want Montseny paths without coach-party chatter, or families who need a pool after a hot city break but balk at Costa prices. Come with walking boots, a phrase-book Catalan greeting and realistic expectations of siesta hours, and the village repays the effort with oak-scented air, trout fresh enough to taste of the river, and church bells that still measure time by daylight rather than data-roaming schedules.