Torelló

At 508 metres above sea level, Torelló sits just high enough for the air to feel thinner than Barcelona's, yet low enough for orange trees to survive in sheltered courtyards. The difference is noticeable: mornings arrive sharper here, even in July, and the evening breeze carries the scent of pine from slopes that start rising immediately behind the last row of houses. This is where the Pyrenean foothills begin their climb towards France, and the town's altitude shapes everything from its weather—often five degrees cooler than Vic, 20 minutes south—to its decidedly un-touristy character.

A Working Town That Happens to Be Handsome

Forget the usual Catalan fantasy of honey-coloured stone and geranium-filled balconies. Torelló's centre is an honest mix: 19th-century textile mills converted into flats, Modernista townhouses with wrought-iron balconies, and 1970s apartment blocks that look better now the ivy has taken hold. The river Ter splits the town in two, its banks lined with plane trees and a flat gravel path that locals treat as an outdoor gym. Walk it at 8 a.m. and you'll share the route with dog-walkers, schoolchildren on scooters and elderly couples power-walking in matching tracksuits. By 9 p.m. the same path becomes an open-air social club: teenagers practising English homework aloud, grandparents supervising grandchildren, and cyclists freewheeling home from the bars on Carrer Major.

Monday is market day. Stalls sprawl across Plaça de la Vila from 7 a.m. until the church bell strikes two, selling everything from razor clams to rubber gloves. British visitors tend to hover around the cheese counter where a farmer from Santa Maria de Besora hands out slivers of mature tupí wrapped in foil. Bring cash—notes under €20 are preferred—and a shopping bag that can survive an enthusiastic elbow. The cafés surrounding the square do a roaring trade in tall glasses of beer and pa amb tomàquet topped with fuet; order before 11 a.m. and you'll still get a table, afterwards you'll be balancing plate and drink on the cathedral steps.

River, Ridge and the Ges Valley

The Ter isn't just scenery—it's the town's original raison d'être. Follow the riverside path west for 25 minutes and you reach the weir built in 1844 to power the Fàbrica Nova mill. The factory chimney still stands, a brick exclamation mark against beech-covered slopes. Continue another kilometre and the path turns into the Via Verda, a converted railway that rolls gently uphill for 8 km to Olot. Rent a bike from the petrol station on the C-17 (€18 per day; they'll lend a helmet and a spare inner tube) and you can be in Sant Feliu de Pallerols for lunch, coasting through tunnels so long you'll need bike lights even at midday.

Prefer walking? Head east instead, crossing the metal footbridge towards the Santuario del Remei. The climb takes 35 minutes on a paved lane that zigzags past vegetable plots and barking dogs. At 720 metres the church terrace delivers a widescreen view: the town's grid of tiled roofs, the Ter glinting silver, and beyond it the Ges valley wrinkling towards the snow-tipped Cims de Milany. The sanctuary itself is locked except on Sundays, but the bar beside it serves coca de recapte—a sort of Catalan pizza topped with roasted aubergine—and coffee strong enough to fuel the descent.

For a half-day hike, follow the GR-210 waymarks from the sanctuary car park. The trail climbs through holm oak to the Coll de Bracons, then drops into the Ges valley where 11th-century masías offer menú del dia at farmhouse tables. Allow four hours round-trip, carry more water than you think—shade is sporadic—and start early: afternoon clouds build fast, especially in May and October.

What to Eat, When to Eat, How to Pay

Catalan inland cooking is meat-heavy and proud of it. Midweek set menus hover around €14-16 and usually start with escudella, a broth thick with chickpeas and a golf-ball-sized pilota meatball. Can Pamplona on Carrer d'en Font will swap the second course for grilled vegetables if you ask nicely; they also serve half-raciones, handy if you want to try both botifarra negre and canelons de rostit. Vegetarians survive on trinxat—a fry-up of cabbage, potato and garlic—though after three days you'll dream of green vegetables that haven't been sautéed in pork fat.

Evening eating starts late. Kitchens open at 8.30 p.m. at the earliest; turn up earlier and you'll be offered crisps and sympathy. Café Modern stays open all afternoon and does decent gin-tonics with nordés galician gin, useful if you've mis-timed the siesta shutdown. The bakery, Forn de Pa Païs, sells out of coca de sucre by 11 a.m.; buy a slab still warm and eat it on the river wall watching the Ter slide past.

Getting There, Staying Over, Getting Out

Torelló has no train station. The nearest railhead is Sant Vicenç de Torello, 4 km away and served by a local bus that meets Barcelona-bound trains twice daily—timings rarely coincide with British connections. Easier: take the Sagalés coach from Barcelona Estació del Nord (1 hr 40, €11.40 single) which deposits you beside the poliesportiu on the edge of town. If you've hired a car, leave it in the free car park behind the town hall; spaces are shaded by plane trees and you're two minutes from everywhere that matters.

Accommodation is limited to two hotels and a handful of holiday lets. The three-star Hotel Torelló occupies a converted 1920s factory overlooking the river; rooms at the back face the wooded slope and cost €10 more but stay cooler in summer. August books up early for the town fiestas (15-18th) when brass bands march until 3 a.m. and fireworks rattle the windows—fun if you like noise, hell if you don't. Spring and early autumn deliver 22 °C afternoons, empty car parks and almond blossom on the valley sides.

Leave time for a side trip to Vic, 18 km south. Its Saturday market is bigger, the cathedral's Romanesque crypt is worth the €5 entry, and you'll find the only English-language bookshop for miles. But return for sunset on the Ter: the light turns the water bronze, swallows skim the surface, and you'll understand why locals insist their town isn't a detour—it's simply where the mountains start.