Vilademuls

The church bell in Vilademuls strikes seven and the reply comes not from another tower but from a diesel engine. A farmer fires up his tractor outside Sant Esteve, the 12th-century stone parish church that still anchors village life. Between the exhaust fumes and the medieval masonry, you understand immediately: this is rural Catalonia going about its day, not performing it for visitors.

Spread across a flat, fertile slab of Pla de l'Estany comarca, the municipality is less a single nucleated village than a loose mosaic of farmsteads known as masías. Officially 842 people are on the padron, yet the head-count rises sharply when the cereal harvest needs shifting or the Festa Major kicks off in August. At 119 m above sea-level, the land feels low enough for the nearby lake of Banyoles to leak into the fields after heavy rain, but high enough for the Pyrenean tramontana wind to rattle the carob trees without warning.

Stone, Tile and Working Soil

The Romanesque doorway of Sant Esteve has been widened twice, traces of the masons' chisels still visible in the honey-coloured stone. Step inside and the dim interior smells of candle wax and the previous night's dew; restoration grants sit half-assembled on pews, proof that heritage here is paid for locally, not air-lifted in by a regional tourist board. Walk ten minutes east, past the handball court and the recycling bins, and you reach Sant Miquel, a smaller 12th-century chapel stranded among ploughed rectangles of red soil. No ticket office, no audio guide—just a wooden door that may or may not be open, and sheep grazing the churchyard grass down to a perfect crew-cut.

Between these two monuments spreads the real architecture of Vilademuls: century-old farmhouses with Roman-tile roofs and hay-loft stairs worn smooth by espadrilles. Many are still operational, identifiable by the aluminium grain silo tacked onto the rear wall and the barking mastiff chained to a fig tree. A polite wave is usually returned, but photography into open barns is best avoided during milking time.

Tracks for Feet and Tyres

You don't need ordnance-survey stamina here. A lattice of farm tracks links the settlements—wide, stone-surfaced lanes designed for tractors pulling cultivators rather than for heroic ascents. One pleasant circuit starts at the village pharmacy, cuts south past the football pitch, then follows the dirt camí de la Serra for 4 km through wheat and sunflower rotations before looping back via Can Ribes, an ivy-clad masía whose owner sells free-range eggs from a fridge on the porch (€2·40 for six; leave coins in the tin). The entire walk takes ninety minutes, shade provided by lines of plane trees planted a century ago to stop the topsoil blowing towards Girona.

Mountain-bike tyres find the same tracks perfectly rideable; tyre width of 35 mm or more recommended after rain, when the red clay clings like biscuit dough. If you crave something longer, pedal 6 km north-west to the greenway known as the Ruta del Carrilet, a converted narrow-gauge railway that now rolls 54 km all the way to Olot through old tunnels and iron bridges. The gradient never exceeds 2%, so even fair-weather cyclists can manage an out-and-back in a morning. A bell is useful: local grandmothers walk three abreast and refuse to yield the centre line.

Lake Days Without the Lake Prices

Banyoles lies 12 km south-east—close enough for an early swim before the rowing teams begin their eight-o'clock drills. Drive the C-150 in fifteen minutes, or cycle the back lanes via Porqueres in forty. The lake's main beach, Banys Vells, charges no entry fee and has freshwater that reaches 24 °C by late July, warmer than the Costa Brava but without the salt rash. After a plunge, the lake-side café at Club Natació serves a three-course menú del día for €14 including wine; cheaper than anything within spitting distance of the Sagrada Família and considerably quieter.

Back in Vilademuls you can replicate the calories at La Barretina, the only restaurant on the village square. Thursday lunchtime brings a set meal of escudella (hearty meat-and-bean broth) followed by bull negre, a blood-sausage stew that tastes better than it photographs. House red comes from Empordà and costs €2·80 a glass; the waiter fills your glass to just below the rim without asking, a habit that predates British-style measures by several centuries.

When to Show Up—and When to Stay Away

April and May throw blankets of yellow rapeseed across the horizon and temperatures hover around 21 °C—T-shirt weather for Brits, jumper weather for locals. Almond blossom appears first, then poppies stitch red seams along the cereal plots. Farmers don't mind walkers provided dogs stay leashed; the lambs are naive and the mastiffs territorial.

July and August turn the landscape beige and the sky an almost aggressive blue. Daytime thermometers read 33 °C, yet the air stays dry enough to evaporate sweat before you feel it. This is peak village life: outdoor cinema projected against the town-hall wall, late-night card games under the plane trees, and the Festa Major around the 15th of August with live sardana bands and communal paellas that start at midnight because no one has to commute next morning. Accommodation doubles in price and the single grocery shop occasionally runs out of ice cream—stockpile before the weekend.

November ushers in the tramuntana proper: cold air barrels down from the Pyrenees, rattling loose shutters and persuading the last swallow to head for Africa. Rain arrives in short, hard bursts; the lanes become sticky clay ice-rinks. Hiking boots with deep lugs are advisable, as is a waterproof jacket with hood—umbrellas last about thirty seconds. The up-side is silence: you can walk for an hour and meet only a tractor and the village postman doing his rounds in a knackered Renault Clio.

Winter itself is brief but sharp. Night temperatures dip to –2 °C, enough to silver-plate the wheat stubble but rarely enough to cancel the school run. If snow reaches this altitude, the municipality grinds to a halt for a day because there is no snowplough; locals fit chains and get on with it. British visitors accustomed to national hysteria at the first flake will find the scene refreshingly pragmatic.

Beds, Bread and Buses

Accommodation is thin on the ground. El Serrat, a converted 18th-century farmhouse two kilometres north of the church, offers four doubles from €85 per night including breakfast of home-made fig jam and still-warm coc bread. They have a pool but no heating, so brave souls only after September. Budget alternatives lie in Banyoles, where Hostal Víctor charges €55 for a double with balcony overlooking a quiet canal—still counts as Vilademuls territory if you enjoy bureaucratic pedantry.

Public transport exists, but only just. A TEISA bus leaves Girona's main station at 13:15 each weekday, reaching Vilademuls plaza at 14:02 after stopping in every hamlet with more than three letterboxes. The return service departs at 06:55, timed for schoolchildren rather than tourists, so day-trippers need a bicycle or a taxi booked the previous evening (expect €35 back to Girona). Hiring a car at the airport remains the path of least resistance; the drive takes 25 minutes on the C-66 and parking beside the church is free and unlimited.

Leaving the Picture Postcard Behind

Vilademuls offers no souvenir shops, no audio-guide headsets, no sunset viewpoint cluttered with selfie sticks. What it does offer is a functioning countryside where the past survives because it is still useful: churches store harvest tractors when hail threatens, bakery ovens that once fed field hands now supply weekend cyclists, and the evening paseo still serves as informal parish news service. Turn up expecting entertainment and you will be disappointed; arrive prepared to match the village's slower cadence and you might leave wondering why more places don't measure time by tractor engines rather than tour buses.