Vic

The Smell of Fuet at 500 Metres

The train doors slide open and the altitude hits before you've left the platform: 500 m above sea-level, enough to thin the air and sharpen the appetite. Vic's station is nothing special—concrete, graffiti, a single ticket machine that usually works—but walk five minutes east and the city pulls its first trick. Plaça Major, one of the widest arcaded squares in Spain, opens like a brick theatre where the stalls are filled with white-parasol tables and the scenery is second-storey Renaissance paintwork flaking in the sun. By nine on a Saturday the butchers are already stacking loops of fuet, the thin Catalan salami that smells of cracked pepper and cellar mould. The aroma drifts through the colonnades and anchors the place more firmly than any guidebook entry.

A Market that Refuses to Be a Tourist Show

Guide writers love to call regional markets "colourful"; Vic's simply is the colour of the comarca. On Tuesdays and Saturdays the square fills with mushroom foragers from the Montseny, honey producers who label jars in Catalan only, and teenagers bargaining over second-hand vinyl laid out on blankets. Elderly women still tug two-wheeled trolleys; they have priority at the cheese counter and everyone knows it. Prices are scrawled in marker pen—no QR codes, no card minimum. If you want to try a sliver of llonganissa, ask before 11 a.m.; after that the stallholders are too busy slicing half-kilos for locals who've queued since childhood. Parking? Forget the centre. Head for the signposted "Pavelló" on the western ring road; it's free for the first ninety minutes and eight minutes on foot from the arcades.

Stone, Paint and the Echo of Roman Sandals

Vic was Ausa in the second century, and the Temple of Roma still stands a street behind the cathedral, its Corinthian columns propped up like polite guests at a party that ended 1,800 years ago. Entry is free and takes three minutes—there isn't much inside—but stand here and look north: the ground slopes gently to the Mediaeval walls, a reminder that the city has simply built on top of itself rather than move away. A two-minute shuffle uphill brings you to the Cathedral of Sant Pere, its Romanesque bell tower the colour of weathered barley. Inside, Josep Maria Sert's vast murals swirl across nave and apse: soot-black horses, crimson cloaks, prophets the height of a double-decker bus. The paintings were finished in 1930; the Civil War spared them, just. Drop a one-euro coin into the light box and the colours jump forward like stage curtains opening. Give yourself half an hour; less and you'll miss the smaller side chapels where elderly locals still mutter rosaries at 12:30 sharp.

Lunch at Ground Level

Shops shutter between 14:00 and 17:00—no negotiation. If you haven't planned, you'll end up with tourist-priced tostadas on the square. Better to duck into Calle dels Codonyers and queue at Can Passeig, a workers' tavern run by the third generation of the same family. Order butifarra amb mongetes: fat white beans stewed with pale pork sausage, half-submerged in garlicky ali-oli. The dish costs €11 and arrives in a clay bowl big enough to double as a swimming pool for a small child. Pair it with a vi negre from nearby Osona; vineyards here struggle at altitude, so the reds stay light and peppery, more Rhône than Rioja. Vegetarians aren't forgotten—grilled anglerfish appears on most menus, but ask for "rape a la brasa" or you'll be served monkfish by mistake.

A Museum for People Who Think They Hate Medieval Art

The Museu Episcopal de Vic (MEV) owns Europe's finest collection of Catalan Romanesque outside Barcelona, yet the galleries are rarely crowded. The trick is to start on Floor 0 with the stone reliefs—tenth-century carvings hacked from Pyrenean chapels during the Civil War and brought here for safekeeping. When you've had your fill of haloed severity, take the lift to Floor 2 where a single room holds the painted panels: tiny Madonna faces with Byzantine eyes, blues still bright because ultramarine came from Afghan lapis freighted through Vic's medieval fairs. Audio guides are free in English; allow ninety minutes or you'll emerge blinking like a mole after too many Madonnas. Student entry is €5; adults €7.50. Closed Mondays.

Hills, Lakes and the Sau Spire

Vic sits where the Pyrenean foothills sag into the plain, so you can hike straight from the tourist office. Pick up the leaflet "Ruta de les Ermites" for a 9 km loop that climbs 250 m to the Santuari de Bellmunt, a Baroque chapel balanced on a bluff. From the terrace you see the city shrink into a chessboard, the cathedral tower no larger than a pepper pot. Prefer water to worship? Drive 20 minutes east to the Pantà de Sau, a reservoir famous for its drowned church: when water levels drop the bell tower emerges like a stone exclamation mark. Kayaks rent for €12 an hour at the dam; bring water shoes because the exposed shoreline is ankle-deep in silt. Summer weekends are rammed with Barcelona families—arrive before 10 a.m. or forget parking.

When the Weather Turns Petulant

Altitude keeps Vic cooler than the coast, but the plain traps fog in winter and spring. January mornings can hover at 2 °C while Girona basks at 14 °C; pack layers and expect drizzle that the locals call boira. Conversely, July and August roast—cafés wheel out industrial fans that do little beyond rearrange the heat. The ideal months are late April and mid-October: market stalls overflow with wild asparagus or chestnuts, the air smells of wet earth rather than exhaust, and hotel rates haven't yet spiked for the December medieval fair. If you do come in winter, time your visit for the Fira de Sant Tomàs (second weekend in December) when the square fills with stalls selling hand-carved nativity figures and the local variant of nougat so hard it could double as building material.

Getting Out Again

Rodalies line R3 connects Vic to Barcelona-Plaça Catalunya twice an hour on weekdays, hourly at weekends. The journey takes 70 minutes and costs €10.40 return on a Zone 4 T-casual ticket—no seat reservations, just touch in and board. From Girona airport you'll need a car: take the C-25 west for 55 minutes, but watch for speed cameras just after Llagostera. Buses back to Barcelona run until 21:30; miss one and you'll discover Vic's nightlife is mostly students drinking clandestine gin-tonics in the arcades until the 06:00 train rolls in. If that happens, join them—order "una copa d'aiguardent" and brace yourself for a liqueur that tastes like firewater filtered through liquorice. The city won't mind. It has seen off Romans, Visigoths and package-day-trippers; it will see off you, too, depositing you back on the platform with the faint scent of fuet clinging to your coat and the realisation that medieval stones, properly used, still have sharp edges.