Setcases

The stone houses of Setcases still face the weather, not the camera. At 1,265 metres they huddle where the Camprodon valley narrows to a dead-end, their slate roofs angled for snow that can arrive in October and stay until Easter. This is the last place you can fill the tank before France, 18 kilometres further on foot across the Costabona ridge, and the village behaves accordingly. Wood is stacked chest-high against every wall. Chimneys smoke in July. Even the church bell sounds as if it’s clearing its throat before the real winter.

A Village That Measures Distance in Altitude, Not Miles

Drive north from Girona and the temperature drops a degree every ten minutes. By the time you leave the C-38 and start the 28-km climb from Camprodon, the air smells of pine and wet granite. The road switches back fourteen times; hedgerows disappear, replaced by low stone walls that mark where fields stop and mountains start. Google Maps promises 35 minutes. Allow 50 if the windscreen is streaked with cloud, an hour if the cows are moving to summer pasture.

Setcases appears suddenly after the last bend: three-storey houses pressed together, their wooden balconies painted the same dark green the Romans used on their carts. The name means “seven houses” and the census has only just crept into triple figures. Yet the place feels busy because everyone is outside. Grandmothers carry shopping up the stepped lanes. Farmers argue over tractor parts outside the one hardware shop. Teenagers practise English on season-pass holders heading for Vallter 2000, the ski station that hovers another 900 metres above the rooftops.

Walking Tracks That Start at the Fountain and End in France

The village pump marks kilometre-zero of six marked trails. The easiest follows the Ter river for forty minutes to the meadows of La Llossa, flat enough for pushchairs and a picnic of supermarket tortilla. From there the path splits. Left heads eight hours to the Ulldeter cirque, a glacial bowl ringed by 2,800-metre peaks where the river is born as a trickle through moss. Right climbs more gently to the manned refuge of Sant Joan, open June–October and selling beer colder than the stream.

Experienced hikers use Setcases as the first overnight on the GR-11, the long-distance traverse that runs 820 km from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. Stage one crosses the Costabona into France, drops to the spa town of Prats-de-Mollo, then marches back over a different col. British visitors like the fact you can do it with a 15 kg rucksac and still sleep in a bed both nights—no tent required, just a reservation at the refuge and a tolerance for snoring.

Afternoon storms are clockwork in July. Clouds build over the Bastiments ridge at two, thunder by four. Locals call it la tronada de rigor and plan accordingly. Start early, finish lunch by one, or you’ll be the dot the rescue helicopter circles at five.

Snow Gates and Summer Shuttle Buses

Vallter 2000 opens for skiing the first weekend of December, sometimes earlier if an early northerly dumps half a metre overnight. The station is nine kilometres above the village but feels like another country. Base is at 2,000 metres; the top lift spills out at 2,535 metres with views that stretch to Cap de Creus on clear days. There are 11 lifts and 25 km of piste—small compared to the Alps, but the runs hold snow because they face north and because nobody polishes them flat by lunchtime. A day pass costs €42 online, €48 on the spot. Rent skis in Camprodon; Setcases only has a tiny outlet that closes for lunch and stocks 1990s Salomons.

Between lifts the same road becomes a summer shuttle for walkers. The green minibus leaves the church square at 8 a.m. and 10 a.m., returns 4 p.m. and 6 p.m., fare €2 each way. It saves 700 metres of ascent and gives day-trippers time to reach the summit of Bastiments and back without night-navigation. Miss the last ride and it’s a two-hour knee-jarring descent on scree. Mobile reception dies two kilometres out of the village—download the map before you leave the bar Wi-Fi.

Food Meant for Shepherds, Not Influencers

Evenings smell of oak smoke and lamb fat. Restaurants occupy the ground floors of houses whose upper storeys were once haylofts; tables are lit by low beams and the occasional head-bump. Expect solid mountain fare rather than tasting menus. Trinxat—cabbage and potato mashed with pancetta—arrives in a cast-iron pan big enough for two. Local lamb shoulder is slow-roasted overnight in the same wood oven that bakes bread at dawn; the meat collapses at the sight of a fork and comes with nothing more glamorous than roast onion and a lemon wedge. Vegetarians survive on grilled goat cheese with honey and a tomato-pepper stew thickened with almonds.

House wine is from Empordà, an hour east, and tastes better after a day above 2,000 metres. Dessert is either crema catalana—a direct cousin of crème brûlée—or pa de pessic, a sponge flavoured with aniseed that keeps for a week in a rucksac. Coffee costs €1.50 if you stand at the bar, €2.50 if you sit; the surcharge is written plainly on a chalkboard so no one can moan later.

When the Crowds Come—and When They Don’t

August fills half the houses with families from Barcelona escaping the coastal humidity. They book apartments with stone walls 80 cm thick and no need for air-conditioning. Prices rise 30 per cent, the bakery opens an extra hour, and Thursday night hosts a craft market where someone’s uncle sells knives forged from old Seat springs. Even then the village never feels packed; the valley simply doesn’t have space for coaches or multi-storey car parks.

October is quieter but arguably the best month. Maples turn scarlet along the river, mushrooms appear overnight, and the temperature hovers around 18 °C at midday—perfect for hiking in a T-shirt while the peaks glitter with fresh snow. Guesthouse owners knock €20 off rooms and throw in breakfast because they’re glad of company.

January is the hush month. Half the population migrates to coastal second homes. The mini-market reduces hours to 9–13, 16–19, and the bar keeps the fire going with off-cuts from ski-station building works. If you want silence, book now—but bring snow-chains, a cache of cash, and a taste for your own company.

Leaving Without the Souvenir Spoon

The nearest reliable cash machine is 15 km back down the valley in Camprodon, so draw notes before the Saturday night rush empties the lone ATM. Girona airport is 90 minutes away on roads that are mostly dual carriageway until the final 30 km; Ryanair flights land from Manchester, Bristol, Stansted and half a dozen other UK points, often cheaper than reaching the Lake District. If the plane leaves early, sleep in Girona’s old town the night before—the medieval walls are worth the detour and rooms are half Barcelona prices.

Setcases will not change your life. It offers no Michelin stars, no nightclubs, no souvenir emporia flogging fridge magnets shaped like bulls. What it does give is a yardstick for how little altitude you need to feel far away. Stand on the church steps at dusk, when the sun drops behind the ridge and the temperature falls five degrees in as many minutes, and the coast feels like another country. Turn around, start walking uphill, and within an hour the only sound is your boots and the river arguing over the same stones.