Vilallonga de Ter

The Valley that Time Refused to Tame

At 1,067 metres, Vilallonga de Ter sits high enough for the air to carry a proper mountain bite, even in late May. The village unfurls along the valley floor like a string of stone beads, each house separated by meadow and the low moo of cows that outnumber humans three to one. This is not the Costa Brava of yacht marinas and gin-tonic sunsets; it is Catalonia's attic, where the Pyrenees keep their old tools—hay barns, slate roofs, and a river that still remembers how to roar.

The Ter starts here, or close enough. Within sight of the church tower it is already a muscular torrent, sliding over granite slabs and forming chest-deep pools the colour of bottle glass. Children from Barcelona shriek when they test it with a toe in August; locals shrug and dive in anyway. Swimming lasts twenty minutes before fingers turn numb and everyone retreats to the grass for sun-warmed tomatoes and bread rubbed with garlic.

Stone, Slate and Silence

No one comes to Vilallonga for monuments. The eleventh-century parish church of Sant Martí stands plain and solid, its bell tower more watchman than ornament. A slow circuit of the lanes takes half an hour: stone doorways shoulder-high, wooden balconies wide enough for a single geranium pot, the occasional tractor parked like a pet against a wall. Notice the slate: thick, almost black, cut so large that each roof weighs tonnes. When hailstorms sweep the valley the tiles clatter like snare drums; builders swear the sound tells them which ones will need replacing come spring.

Above the last houses the tarmac stops. From here onwards it is footpaths only—some marked with red-and-white flashes, others that peter out into sheep trails. Hay meadows climb in terraces, their edges stitched with wild yellow irises. Look up and the horizon is all teeth: Pic de la Dona at 2,702 m, Puig de la Canal slightly lower but steeper, both still patched with snow when London is already eating lunch outside. On a clear day you can clock the exact line where deciduous forest gives way to pine, an edge sharp enough to draw with a ruler.

Boots, Bikes and the Wrong Kind of Skis

Walking starts straight from the door. The easiest outing follows the Ter downstream to the abandoned mill of La Llémena, forty-five minutes of flat path and stone bridges that even toddlers manage. The opposite direction heads upstream towards Setcases, gaining 300 m over five kilometres; elder locals do it before breakfast, Nordic poles clicking like crickets. Serious hikers aim for the Pic de la Dona: six hours return, 1,100 m of ascent, a final scramble across granite that requires hands in pockets and a head for exposure. In July the summit is a butterfly highway; in October you may meet mushroom hunters carrying knives and the faraway look of people who know exactly where the rovellons grow.

Mountain bikers use the forestry tracks that zig-zag the opposite hillside. The climb is relentless—12 km of gravel to the col at 1,800 m—but the descent drops 900 m in a single, brake-burning glide back to the river. Bring spare pads; the nearest bike shop is 35 km away in Ripoll and stocks little beyond inner tubes and optimism.

Winter changes the rules. Snow can arrive overnight in November and stay until April; side roads become toboggan runs and the school bus chains up. Vallter 2000 ski station is 18 km away—thirty-five minutes on cleared tarmac—but accommodation there is overpriced apartments and fondue restaurants playing eighties anthems. Vilallonga offers stone cottages with log burners at half the price, plus the guilty pleasure of driving past the ski traffic while locals raise a hand from the doorway. Langlauf tracks are groomed closer still, starting two kilometres above the village when conditions allow.

Potatoes, Pastry and the Missing Cashpoint

Food is mountain plain: grilled sausages, white beans stewed with pork fat, potatoes roasted in the baker's oven until their skins blister and the insides taste of earth and smoke. The local trumfa—small, knobbly, violet-skinned—arrives by the sack at weekends; buy them from the porch table by the bakery, leave two euros in the tin. Try trinxat, a hash of cabbage and potato bound with pancetta, ideal after a day on the hill. Sweet-toothed visitors hunt for vilallonguins, cigar-shaped pastries pumped with thick custard and dusted with powdered sugar. They travel badly; eat on the spot.

There is only one grocery shop, open 9–1 and 4–7 except Sunday. Shelves hold UHT milk, tinned tuna, local cheese wrapped in cling-film. Bread arrives at 11; if you want warm baguettes, queue at five past. The nearest cash machine is in Camprodon, 10 km down the valley, beside a chemist that stocks British paracetamol at triple the price. Fill your wallet before you wind uphill—many houses still take payment in notes rather than cards, and the bakery tin certainly does not accept contactless.

Saturday morning belongs to Camprodon's market: stalls of honey, wild mushrooms, and bifidus yoghurt that tastes of the cows you passed on the walk in. Arrive early; by eleven the car park is gridlocked with hatchbacks and the smell of diesel and churros.

When the Clouds Drop and the Bus Doesn't Come

The village is not flawless. Mobile signal vanishes in the narrow lanes; Vodafone disappears first, EE shortly after. Rain can last a week, turning footpaths into streams and tempers sour. The twice-daily bus from Girona is cancelled if snow reaches the main road—miss it and a taxi costs €60 to Ripoll, assuming you can get through. August fills with families from Barcelona; their children race quad bikes along the river track after dusk, shattering the silence that walkers came for. Book accommodation with thick walls or earplugs.

Even summer nights cool to 12 °C; pack a fleece for July barbecues. Most houses lack air-conditioning, relying instead on metre-thick stone. It works until the western sun hits the bedrooms at six; by nine the heat can be stifling. Close the shutters at tea-time and reopen at dusk—simple, but newcomers usually learn the hard way.

Leaving the Valley

Drive out at dawn and the peaks glow pink above the mist, the Ter a silver thread far below. The road corkscrews downward through beech forest until Camprodon appears, suddenly cosmopolitan with its traffic lights and estate agents. From here Girona is ninety minutes, Barcelona two hours—close enough for convenience, far enough to keep Vilallonga just beyond the reach of weekend hordes. Come for four days, not two; let the weather decide which path you take, and allow time to sit by the river until the water no longer feels cold. The village will not entertain you—entertainment is your job—but it will lend you silence, space and the small revelation that somewhere in Europe, rivers still begin exactly as they should.