Crespià

The church bell strikes noon, and the only other sound is a tractor reversing into a stone barn. In Crespia, population 242, this counts as the morning rush hour. Twelve kilometres north of Banyoles, the village sits at 138 metres above sea level – high enough to catch the breeze that drifts across the Pla de l'Estany's grain fields, low enough that no one bothers with altitude jokes.

Visitors arrive expecting a replica of the region's better-known medieval hill towns and find instead a working agricultural settlement where the most prominent building is the grain co-op. The parish church of Sant Martí does rise above the rooftops, but its sandstone walls have been patched so many times since the twelfth century that the original Romanesque arches now wear a coat of eighteenth-century stucco and twentieth-century render. Inside, the priest still reads the Sunday notices from a lectern carved with wheat sheaves – a reminder that the collection plate depends on the harvest as much as on the congregation.

The village grid consists of three streets and two alleys, all of them narrow enough that a Range Rover would need wing mirrors folded. Stone houses line the pavements like elderly neighbours gossiping; their ground floors open straight onto the street, revealing kitchens where copper pans hang above wood-fired stoves. Electricity arrived in 1963, but several residents still keep the oil lamps ready because storms knock the grid out for fun. Broadband followed in 2009, though the signal drops whenever someone drives past with a trailer full of pigs.

Walk east for five minutes and the tarmac gives way to a dirt track that threads between wheat fields and small oak groves. These camins rurals form a spider's web connecting Crespia to Porqueres, Fontcoberta and Cornellà del Terri – none of them more than a forty-minute stride away. The paths are signposted only at junctions where two farmers couldn't agree whose turn it was to paint the arrow. Spring brings a rash of red poppies among the barley; by late June the straw has turned the colour of digestive biscuits and the temperature nudges thirty-five degrees. Shade is scarce, so early starts are sensible. A litre of water and a baseball cap beat the fanciest hiking boots.

Cyclists appreciate the rollercoaster profile: gentle climbs followed by freewheeling descents past dry-stone walls where lizards sunbathe. Road bikes cope fine on the main lanes; mountain bikes can venture onto the farm tracks, though after rain the clay sticks to tyres like Christmas pudding to a spoon. The nearest bike shop is in Banyoles, so carry a spare inner tube and a pocket-sized swearword dictionary.

Five kilometres south-west, Banyoles lake offers the closest swim. Its Olympic rowing lanes stay roped off from May to September, but the northern shore has a grassy beach where locals stretch towels between the pine roots. Entry is free before 10 a.m.; after that the lifeguards appear and charge four euros for the privilege of their whistles. Weekends fill with Girona families who bring cool-boxes the size of washing machines, so aim for a Tuesday if you prefer quiet water.

Back in Crespia, food options are limited to what you can rustle up yourself. The village shop closed in 2008 when the owner retired; the nearest supermarket is a Condis in Cornellà del Terri, eight minutes by car or twenty-five by bike. What the village does have is a bakery van that toots its horn at 11 a.m. every day except Sunday. Queues form instantly: grandmothers clutching canvas bags, builders still dusty from the fields, the odd English walker trying to pronounce coques without sounding like a cough. The almond biscuits disappear first; arrive after half past and you'll be left with brioix – edible, but essentially Catalan lardy cake.

For a sit-down meal you need wheels. Can Xic in nearby Mata scores high for grilled botifarra sausage and fesols beans, but it opens only at weekends and insists on reservations. Mid-week, try the terrace at Restaurant el Moli in Cornellà: three courses, water and wine for sixteen euros, plus a view of the river Ter sliding past the old mill wheel. Vegetarians face the usual struggle; most dishes contain ham the way British food contains salt – invisibly and everywhere.

Accommodation inside the village limits itself to two rental houses and a pair of B&B rooms above the former school. Cal Tinent sleeps six, has exposed beams thick enough to swing from, and costs €120 a night minimum two nights. The owner, Maria, leaves a bottle of her husband's vi ranci – a sherry-like oxidised wine – on the kitchen table. Drink it after supper, not before; at eighteen percent proof it doubles as paint stripper. Budget travellers can camp at the agricultural co-op's field for ten euros a night, cold-water tap included. The farmer simply points at the grass and says, "Don't set fire to anything." Book ahead in July; the site has room for six tents and no website.

Weather dictates the rhythm. From mid-October the tramuntana wind barrels down from the Pyrenees, rattling loose shutters and persuading even the dogs to stay indoors. Days stay bright but the mercury stalls at twelve degrees; bring a fleece and expect to pay for heating if the B&B owner is feeling thrifty. April and May deliver the best compromise: twenty-four degrees by day, wild orchids along the paths, and enough daylight for an evening stroll before the 9.30 p.m. dusk. August is furnace-hot; locals close their shutters at noon and re-emerge at five. If you must come then, copy them – siesta is not a luxury, it's a survival technique.

The annual Fiesta Mayor lands on the weekend closest to 11 November, feast of Sant Martí. A fairground ride the size of a lorry occupies the tiny plaça, someone releases a tape of bagpipe music, and the village square smells of grilled sardines and diesel. At midnight the correfoc – a parade of locals dressed as devils waving fireworks – weaves between the houses. Spectators stand well back; sparks have a habit of diving down unsuspecting necks. The next morning everyone troops to mass, slightly singed and clutching coca bread topped with candied fruit. By Monday lunchtime the ride has gone, the square has been swept, and Crespia returns to the sound of tractors.

Leave with realistic expectations. You will not tick off Unesco sites or fill memory cards with postcard vistas. What you get instead is a slice of rural Catalonia where the café owner remembers how you take your coffee and the evening entertainment consists of swifts diving above the church tower. Bring walking shoes, a phrasebook and enough cash for the bakery van. The village won't dazzle, but it might just slow your pulse to agricultural time – and that, these days, counts as a souvenir.