Tona

The butcher's van arrives at eight-thirty sharp, horn blaring across Plaça Major. By nine, the queue snakes past the 16th-century well, pensioners clutching canvas bags, discussing rainfall and the price of calf's liver. This is Tona's morning rush hour—no tube strikes, no traffic jams, just the daily rhythm that's marked time here since the Romans planted wheat on these plateau fields 2,000 years ago.

At 596 metres above sea level, the village sits where the Pyrenean foothills ease into the plains of Osona. The air carries a clarity that makes distant peaks look close enough to touch; on winter mornings, Montseny's wooded ridges appear etched against the sky, while summer haze softens the horizon into watercolour blues. The altitude brings proper seasons—frost crisps the stone rooftops in January, and August nights cool to 18°C, a blessing when Barcelona swelters 70 kilometres south-east.

Stone, Soil and Sky

Tona's medieval core isn't staged for visitors—it's simply where people still live. Narrow lanes weave between ochre walls, laundry flaps above doorways painted the traditional Catalan green that supposedly keeps witches at bay. The parish church of Sant Andreu squats at the centre, its Romanesque bones visible beneath later additions. Step inside during Saturday evening mass and you'll hear Catalan spoken at natural speed, not the slowed-down version guidebooks favour.

Beyond the centre, the town unravels into working farmland. Masías—stone farmhouses with arched doorways and terracotta roofs—dot the landscape every few hundred metres. Many still operate as farms; others have become weekend retreats for Barcelona families who've discovered that €250,000 buys a four-bedroom house with outbuildings here, versus a one-bed flat in the city. The mix keeps the countryside alive—tractors rumble past smartly converted barns where Londoners sip gin-and-tonic beside infinity pools.

The agricultural calendar shapes daily life. September brings the wheat harvest, dust clouds rising behind combines that work until dusk. In February, almond blossom turns the slopes white, attracting photographers from Vic who know the best angles but rarely share grid references. Come May, the fields blaze yellow with rapeseed—a sight that stops cyclists in their tracks, though they'll have earned the view after grinding up the C-17 from Barcelona.

Walking Without Waypoints

Tona rewards those who abandon itineraries. A network of signed footpaths loops through the municipality, none longer than 12 kilometres, all manageable in trainers rather than hiking boots. The Turó de Castell route starts behind the football ground, climbing gently through holm oak to the ruined Iberian settlement that crowns the hill. From here, the panorama stretches from the Pyrenees to the plains—on clear days, you can pick out the bell tower of Vic cathedral, 11 kilometres distant.

For something longer, follow the GR-3 long-distance path south towards the village of Muntanyola. The trail crosses dry-stone walls built when these slopes fed sheep rather than weekenders, passes through olive groves where locals still press their own oil each November, and drops into hidden valleys where red kites circle overhead. Allow three hours, pack water—there's nowhere en route—and remember that Spanish trail markings assume you can navigate: paint splashes on rocks, not signposts every 200 metres.

Cyclists favour the rolling roads linking Tona with neighbouring villages. The 28-kilometre circuit to Sant Bartomeu del Grau and back offers 400 metres of climbing—enough to justify the three-course lunch that follows. Road surfaces are generally good, traffic light except during commuter hours when Vic's workforce heads home. The catch? No bike shop exists between here and Girona, 60 kilometres north. Bring tubes, pump, and the tools you'd need to fix roadside mechanicals.

Eating Between Bells

Food here follows the agricultural calendar rather than tourist demand. Can Xarina, on Carrer Major, serves the sort of menu that makes nutritionists despair and everyone else happy. Try the botifarra amb mongetes—grilled local sausage with white beans stewed in pork fat—washed down with house red that costs €2.50 a glass and tastes better than many London pubs' £8 Rioja. They close Sundays; Saturday lunch runs until 4pm, after which you'll wait until 8pm for anything more substantial than crisps.

For lighter fare, Cal Sastre occupies a former tailor's shop, sewing machines replaced by metal tables and mismatched chairs. Their coca de recapte—flatbread topped with roasted aubergine and red peppers—makes a decent vegetarian option in pork-obsessed Catalonia. Order the crema catalana for dessert; the chef torches the sugar topping at your table, a small theatre that delights children and anyone who hasn't seen it done a hundred times.

The bakery on Plaça Vella opens at seven each morning except Monday. Their coques de sucre—sweet flatbread scattered with pine nuts—sell out by ten. Locals buy them warm, tear off pieces while walking home, leaving trails of sugar on the pavement. It's Tona's equivalent of the morning croissant run, though considerably cheaper at €1.20 each.

The Reality Check

Tona's not picture-perfect. The industrial estate on the northern approach houses a concrete plant that covers cars in grey dust when the wind blows wrong. August weekends see the population triple as Barcelona families arrive; finding parking near the centre becomes a test of patience and three-point-turn skills. The municipal pool charges €5 entry and fills with screaming children from eleven onwards—visit before ten or after six to swim lengths rather than dodge inflatables.

English is thin on the ground. Younger people speak some, older residents none, and menus remain resolutely Catalan. Download an offline translator app before arriving; pointing at phrases works better than shouting slowly in GCSE Spanish. Shops observe the traditional siesta—2pm to 5pm—without exception. Arrive at 2.15pm hungry and you'll remain so unless you've planned ahead.

Getting here requires effort. Barcelona airport to Tona takes 90 minutes minimum: train to Sants, connection to Vic, then taxi or the hourly bus that stops running at 9pm. Car hire makes sense for stays longer than a weekend; the final 15 kilometres from the motorway winds through hills that feel higher than they look, especially after dark when potholes appear without warning.

When to Fold the Map

Stay three nights and Tona reveals its rhythm. Mornings belong to workers heading to Vic, shopping baskets hung from bicycle handlebars. Afternoons fade into siesta quiet, broken only by the church bell marking quarters. Evenings bring paseo—families strolling the main street, teenagers clustering around the playground, old men solving Catalonia's political problems over carajillo (coffee laced with brandy) at Bar Central.

Book accommodation with a terrace if possible. As the sun drops behind the mountains, the stone walls glow amber, swallows dive between rooftops, and the day's heat rises from the pavements in shimmering waves. From here, Barcelona feels distant in ways kilometres can't measure—a city existing on another plane, where rush hour means something entirely different.

Leave before you understand too much. Tona works because it doesn't try to impress; it simply continues, season following season, wheat growing and being harvested, almonds blooming and bearing fruit. The village rewards visitors who arrive without checklists, who can appreciate the small miracle of a place where tractors still outnumber Teslas, and where the butcher knows his customers by name. Just remember to bring cash—he doesn't take cards, and the nearest ATM runs out of money every weekend.