Taradell

The butcher at Taradell's Friday market wraps a length of fuet sausage in white paper, ties it with string, and hands it over like contraband. By 10:30 the plaça is already thick with wheeling trolleys and shouted greetings in Catalan; no-one's speaking English, which is the first clue you've slipped off the standard tourist circuit. This is Osona, 623 metres above sea-level, where the Pyrenees start thinking about becoming mountains and the land smells of damp oak leaves and woodsmoke.

A Town That Forgot to Become a Museum

Taradell won't win any prettiness contests. Stone houses sit beside 1970s brick blocks, satellite dishes sprout above wrought-iron balconies, and the high street has a hardware shop that still sells scythes. What it offers instead is continuity: the same families have farmed the surrounding wheat and sunflower fields for generations, and the barman in Cafè de la Plaça can tell you whose grandfather planted the plane trees in the square without turning it into a performance.

Start at the parish church of Sant Genís, a solid sandstone rectangle that looks as if it grew out of the rock rather than being built. Inside, the cool darkness smells of candle wax and floor polish; a side chapel holds a 14th-century wooden Virgin whose face has been worn smooth by centuries of fingertips. The church clock strikes quarters rather than hours, a gentle reminder that time here is negotiable.

From the church it's a three-minute stroll to Carrer Major, where the old houses haven't been scrubbed into a film set. Look up and you'll see stone lintels carved with dates—1789, 1823, 1901—alongside modern PVC windows. The effect is oddly reassuring: people modernise when the roof leaks, not when the tour bus arrives.

Walking Through the Oak Shadow

The real reason to base yourself in Taradell is what lies beyond the last streetlamp. Head north on the Camí de les Gralles and within ten minutes you're among holm oaks and strawberry trees, following a gravel track that eventually loops up to the ruined castle of Taradell. The climb takes forty minutes and delivers a view straight down the Plana de Vic: a chessboard of green and gold fields hemmed by the Montseny massif, which on clear days shows its granite teeth against the sky.

For gentler legs, the 5-kilometre circuit to Mas el Vent follows an old drove road past dry-stone walls and stone threshing circles. Farmers still use these paths; don't be startled if a tractor appears round a bend, driver raising two fingers in the casual Catalan salute. Take water—there's no café until you're back in town—and avoid high summer, when the thermometer can touch 35 °C and the cicadas drown out thought.

If you're car-less, local taxi driver Joan (no English, accepts WhatsApp voice notes) will run you to the Guilleries-Savassona Natural Park for €25. From the chapel of Sant Pere de Savassona it's a level 45-minute walk to the Congost de la Salut gorge, where black vultures ride thermals above cliffs that drop 150 metres to the Osor valley.

What to Eat When the Shops Shut

Catalan shop hours still baffle British stomachs. Everything closes at 14:00 sharp; by 14:05 the streets are empty except for the occasional dog walker. Plan accordingly. The Friday market is your best bet for picnic supplies: fat tomatoes that actually taste of tomato, wedges of salty tupí cheese, and coca flatbread still warm from the oven at Forn Taradell. Arrive before 11:00 or you'll circle for parking while someone's grandmother hoots at you in Catalan.

For sit-down food, Can Xarina on Avinguda Catalunya does a no-nonsense three-course menú del dia for €14.50. Expect grilled pork, chips and a carafe of house red poured into tumblers. Vegetarians can ask for escalivada—roasted aubergine and peppers—but check first; it sometimes arrives topped with anchovies. Cal Serni, tucked behind the church, serves Thursday-night calçotada (charred spring onions with romesco sauce) during February and March; book ahead, the whole town turns up.

Monday is the dead day—most restaurants close and even the bakery shutters at lunchtime. Stock up on Sunday evening or face a supper of crisps and fuet eaten in your hire car.

Getting There, Staying Over

Taradell has no station. Fly to Barcelona, pick up a car at the airport, and head north on the C-17 towards Vic. After 55 minutes take exit 202, then follow the C-25 for six minutes. Total journey: 75 minutes if you avoid rush hour; add another 30 if you land at 17:00 when every Barcelonan decides to leave town.

Accommodation is thin on the ground. Most British visitors base themselves at the spa hotel Balneari Broquetas in Caldes de Montbui, fifteen minutes south, and day-trip up the hill. Closer in, Can Xarina rents four simple flats above the restaurant—clean, Wi-Fi that works, balconies overlooking wheat fields. For families, Mas Casablanca offers two farm-stay rooms: children can collect eggs at 08:00 sharp; parents get a bottle of homemade ratafia liqueur on arrival.

When Silence Costs Extra

Come in late April and you'll walk through meadows dotted with wild peonies. October brings the fira de la longanissa, a sausage-fuelled fiesta where the town square smells of smoked paprika and woodsmoke. Both months give you daylight until seven and temperatures in the low twenties—perfect for walking without the sweat.

Winter is a different proposition. At 623 metres Taradell catches the tramuntana wind; night-time temperatures can drop below zero and the mist sits in the valley like cold porridge. Roads stay open but bring a fleece—Catalan central heating is set to "stoic" rather than "British". Summer, conversely, can feel limp. August empties the town as locals flee to the coast; the bakery closes for three weeks and the only language you'll hear is the occasional second-home French.

Leave before the market packs up and you'll drive away with a paper-wrapped bundle of fuet wedged beside the map, the smell of oak smoke in your hair, and the realisation that somewhere between the butcher's string and the church clock you stopped checking your phone. Taradell doesn't do revelations; it just lets ordinary life continue at an altitude high enough to make you notice it.