Planoles

The 11:15 TEISA bus from Ripoll is still climbing when the valley floor drops away and stone farmhouses appear like grey dice scattered across green felt. At 1,136 metres, Planoles feels closer to the sky than to Barcelona—yet the city’s metro ticket is valid all the way here, a quirk that makes rail enthusiasts grin as they flash their T-usual on the vintage Rodalies train.

Three hundred-odd people live in the village proper, plus a few dozen more in the hamlets of Fornells, Serfontanet and Nevà. Cows outnumber humans by a comfortable margin; their bells provide the soundtrack while the river Rigard supplies the bass note. No souvenir stalls, no tour buses, not even a cash machine that can be relied upon after lunchtime. What Planoles offers instead is altitude without attitude: a place where British walkers can swap coastal humidity for mountain air that smells of pine and wood smoke, and where the night temperature can dip to 10 °C even in August.

Stone, Slate and Silence

The parish church of Sant Martí squats at the top of the only paved slope, its Romanesque bones patched over the centuries like a well-worn wax jacket. The bell tower serves as a beacon for anyone returning from a late hike; when the light fades, the lamp above the porch is the brightest thing for miles. Around it, the houses are built from the mountain itself—granite walls 60 cm thick, slate roofs weighted with stones against the Tramuntana wind. Wooden balconies sag gently, geraniums survive the altitude in terracotta pots, and every second doorway frames a view of hay meadows climbing toward beech forest.

Walk south for ten minutes and the tarmac gives way to a dirt track that links the masías. Some are still working farms with milking sheds attached; others have become weekend refuges for Barcelona families who arrive on Friday evening clutching bags of calçots and bottles of Priorat. Planning rules are strict—no PVC windows, no satellite dishes on the street façade—so the architectural rhythm remains intact. Stop outside Cal Riera and you’ll see the date 1738 carved beside a horseshoe arch; the current owner, a retired teacher from Vic, will happily explain how the threshing floor doubled as a dance space until the 1950s.

Getting High, Staying Grounded

Planoles is not a resort. The nearest ski lifts are a 25-minute drive away at Vall de Núria, and the village itself never bothered with pistes. What it does have is instant access to empty ridges. The GR-11 long-distance path passes just above the cemetery; follow the red-and-white flashes east and you’ll reach the Núria sanctuary in three hours, ascending 900 m through dwarf pine and scree. Turn west and the route climbs to the Coll de la Llosa, where bearded vultures ride thermals that rise from the valley like invisible elevators.

For a half-day outing, take the farm lane behind the sports ground (a fenced five-a-side pitch that doubles as the village car park on fiesta day). It switchbacks past abandoned hay barns to the Cap del Rec, a grassy balcony at 1,850 m where the view opens north to the high peaks of the Cerdanya. On a clear morning you can pick out Puigmal, the 2,913 m summit that marks the Franco-Spanish watershed. The ascent is straightforward; the descent can be punishing on the knees, so walking poles are worth the Ryanair baggage fee.

Winter transforms the same tracks into white corridors. Snow usually arrives in December and lingers until March; without crampons the higher paths become sheet ice, but snow-shoeing through the holm oak above Fornells is safe and ridiculously photogenic. When blizzards close the C-17, the valley feels cut off rather than cosy—worth remembering if you’re tempted by a January weekend. On the plus side, hotel rates drop by a third and the fireplace at Fonda Cal Daldo crackles all afternoon.

Cheese, Charcoal and Catalan Time

Food is mountain-plain: escudella broth thick with chickpeas and a golf-ball-sized meatball, followed by trout that was swimming that morning or lamb grilled over vine shoots. Vegetarians get trinxat—cabbage and potato cake bound with garlic and pancetta (ask them to hold the pancetta; they’ll swap it for wild mushrooms if the season’s right). Pudding is either mató—fresh cheese drizzled with honey—or crema catalana burnt to order. The three-course menú del dia costs €16 at Fonda Cal Daldo, the only restaurant open year-round. El Trill, five minutes up the lane, opens at weekends and does wonderful things with charcoal, but service is leisurely; order a second beer before you think you need it.

Breakfast is simpler: coffee from a Nespresso machine that arrived in 2019, plus pa amb tomàquet—toast rubbed with tomato, olive oil and salt. British children usually declare it “Spanish pizza bread” and request thirds. If you’re self-catering, the village shop stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna and locally made saucisson labelled simply “pork and pepper”. Fresh bread arrives at 09:00; by 13:30 the shelves are bare and the owner pulls down the shutter for siesta.

How to Arrive, When to Leave

The train is half the fun. From Barcelona Sants the R3 creeps up the valley for two hours, stopping at every stone cottage that claims a platform. Sit on the right for river views, on the left for cliffs. Single fare is €11.20—bargain by UK standards—but the last service leaves at 19:06; miss it and you’re looking at a €90 taxi from Ribes de Freser. Driving is quicker (1 h 45 min from Girona airport) yet the final 8 km from Campdevànol is a single-track road with passing places; meet a timber lorry and you’ll be reversing uphill in first gear.

Spring and autumn deliver the best compromise: empty trails, wildflowers in May, golden larch in October, and hotel rooms at €55 rather than the August €80. Summer afternoons bring thunderstorms that roll around the cirque like artillery practice; pack a waterproof even if the dawn sky is lavender-blue. Winter days are short but the air is so clear you can count the pylons in the Cerdanya plain 20 km away—provided the pass isn’t closed by snow.

Leave before you take the silence for granted. After three days the cowbells start to sound like background muzak, and the night sky—so dark that the Milky Way really does look like spilled sugar—begins to feel normal. Catch the 07:42 southbound and you’ll be in Barcelona for coffee and churros before the city has properly woken up, already wondering if the valley was real or just a particularly crisp dream.