Falset

The Thursday morning market in Plaça de la Quartera fits into three rows of canvas awnings: one stall for blood oranges, one for almonds the colour of pale wood, and a third where a couple from neighbouring Capçanes pour olive oil into whatever bottle you hand them. By half past eleven the locals have drifted off with their shopping nets and the only people left are a pair of cyclists debating whether the climb to the castle counts as “warm-up” or “work-out”. Falset never feels empty, merely proportionate: 2,809 souls, a handful of visitors, and just enough commerce to keep both groups from grumbling.

A Town That Works for a Living

Altitude 364 m means nights stay cool even when the coast is sweltering, so the cooperatives can ferment without expensive refrigeration. It also means the air smells of thyme and sun-baked slate rather than salt. Falset is the administrative capital of Priorat, the upland comarca that produces some of Spain’s most expensive red wines, and the village behaves like it: there is a chemist, a proper hardware shop, two bakeries that open before seven, and a Saturday-night queue at the cash machine that tells you the harvest money has landed. Tourism is welcome, but it is not the only pay cheque in town.

The old centre is compact enough to cross in five minutes, yet someone bothered to restore the stone carvings on the Palau dels Dues de Medinaceli, the Gothic-Renaissance palace that now houses the ajuntament. Across the square, the Modernista wine cooperative designed by Gaudí’s disciple Cèsar Martinell rises in brick arches that echo the Parque Güell hypostyle hall—only here the columns end in steel taps instead of mosaic lizards. Hour-long visits run most mornings (€7 including a glass of young garnatxa), but drop-ins are welcome at the shop if you only want to compare prices with the supermarket shelf in Reus.

Up to the Castle, Down to the Cellar

A signed footpath climbs from Carrer Major to the twelfth-century castell. Five minutes of calf-burning later, the track emerges onto a bald ridge where only a single tower and a waist-high wall survive. The reward is a 360-degree sweep of terraced vineyards that turn from graphite green to rust red depending on the month. Bring binoculars and you can pick out the villages that fill restaurant wine lists back home: Gratallops, El Lloar, Porrera, all within a ten-kilometre radius yet feeling like separate islands in a sea of slate.

Back at street level, every other doorway seems to hide a cellar. Some are glossy affairs with English-speaking staff and ISO certificates taped to the window; others are garages where a man in overalls will rinse out an empty Coke bottle, fill it straight from the barrel, and charge you three euros. The denomination’s rules are strict—mainly garnacha and cariñena, yields kept ridiculously low—so even the humblest table wine tastes darker and more serious than its price suggests. If you plan to visit more than two bodegas, book a taxi in advance: mobile coverage vanishes the moment you leave the tarmac, and the road gradients laugh at Dutch bikes.

When the Mountains Get Invited to Dinner

Priorat’s cuisine is mountain cooking with a wine list that costs more than the rent. Restaurants in Falset work with what surrounds them: almonds, hazelnuts, wild boar that has spent its life sniffing around the same terraces you photographed earlier. At Hostal Sport, a family-run hotel that predates the motorway, duck confit arrives under a layer of fresh figs; the sweetness tames the local red’s tannin better than any textbook pairing. Vegetarians survive on escalivada—smoked aubergine and peppers finished over vine cuttings—served warm with a slab of white goat’s cheese. Portions are large; the Priorat appetite for calories was designed for people who spend the morning hauling crates up 30-degree slopes.

Lunch starts at one, finishes by three. After that, metal shutters roll down and the village shifts into siesta mode until five. Plan accordingly: if you need picnic supplies for an afternoon walk, buy them before two or you will be foraging for crisps in the only open bar, which doubles as the betting shop.

Walking It Off (and Up, and Up Again)

Six signed trails fan out from the north edge of town. The shortest (6 km, yellow blazes) loops through olive groves to the hamlet of Masroig and back; the longest (14 km, red) climbs 500 m to the Sant Antoni hermitage, a stone hut balanced on a cliff that looks across to the snow-capped Montsant range. Markings are fresh, but the substrate is flaky slate: after rain the path behaves like broken crockery underfoot. Summer hiking is possible only if you start at dawn; by ten o’clock the thermometer is nudging 35 °C and the only shade is your own shadow. Spring and autumn are kinder, and in late October the vineyards turn traffic-light red, a spectacle that justifies the region’s other industry—photo workshops for retired Brits with expensive lenses.

Cyclists arrive with compact chainsets and still complain. The local road to Porrera averages 8 % for five kilometres, touches 14 % on the switchbacks, and offers no café until the descent into El Molar. Bring two bottles; the roadside fountains are decorative, not functional.

Getting There, Getting Out

Reus airport, 55 km east, is served by Ryanair from London Stansted and Manchester three times a week in season. A hire car is the sensible option: the drive takes 40 minutes on the A-7 and TP-7401, and you will need wheels to reach most cellars. Public transport exists but feels like a practical joke: train to Tarragona, coach to Reus, another coach to Falset, total elapsed time roughly three hours if the connections smile on you. Parking inside the old centre is restricted to residents; leave the car in the signposted gravel area by the sports court and walk the last 200 m.

Accommodation ranges from the afore-mentioned Hostal Sport (doubles from €85, garage for bikes) to rental flats aimed at weekend oenophiles from Barcelona. August books up early with vintners’ holidays; February is cheap but many restaurants close while owners prune the vines. English is spoken in hotels, less so in bars; download the Catalan offline pack in Google Translate and remember that a polite “Bon dia” unlocks more smiles than a loud “¡Hola!”.

The Morning After

Checkout day reveals Falset’s split personality. If the harvest is underway, tractors block the main street and the air vibrates with the clatter of de-stemmers. If it isn’t, the village reverts to a hush broken only by the church bell and the hiss of an espresso machine. Either version is authentic; this is not a place that tidies itself up for the coach parties that bypass it on the way to the coast. Take home a bottle of the inky red, by all means, but also a quarter-kilo of the local almonds—roasted with salt, they taste of the same slate that stresses the vines into greatness. Just remember to keep some cash aside: the ATM has been known to run dry on Sunday evenings, and the night bus back to Reus does not accept payment in wine.