Amer

The bell-tower of Santa Maria appears first, a square stone finger poking above the poplars long before the road drops into the valley. At that moment the Brugent river glints below, the Pyrenean foothill air thins by a few degrees, and Girona’s coastal bustle feels farther away than the 35 km crow-fly suggests. Amer sits at a modest 186 m, low enough for olives yet high enough for night-time temperatures to nip even in May. The altitude is shy of dramatic, but it is enough to change the rhythm: traffic thins, conversations stretch, and lunch starts when the monastery clock says so, not when a phone pings.

Stone that Has Forgotten the Coast

Cross the medieval bridge—single arch, no parapet widening—and the town plan reveals itself in the time it takes to drink a cortado. One main artery, Carrer Major, runs uphill between honey-coloured houses whose ground floors still shutter against midday sun. Above the doorways you’ll spot carved dates: 1623, 1745, 1890. None is flagged by a heritage plaque; locals simply live behind them. The Benedictine monastery, founded in the ninth century and rebuilt through Romanesque and Gothic waves, plugs the street’s crest like a full stop. Inside, the three-nave church smells of candle wax and damp sandstone; the fourteenth-century cloister wraps a garden where swallows ricochet between pomegranate and lemon. Entry is free, though a €2 donation box funds roof slates that the tramuntana wind keeps stripping away. Mass at 11:00 on Sunday doubles as an informal concert: the organ’s pipes date from 1798 and wheeze pleasantly off-key.

Carry on past the cloister and you spill into the smaller plaça de l’Església where the parish church faces the monastery’s back wall. The two buildings share stone, centuries and, on feast days, a steady procession of folding chairs. Weekday mornings the bar opposite sets three tables outside; coffee is €1.30, served in thick glass that keeps the brew hot while you decide whether Catalan pastry merits the calories. Order the coca de llardons—a salty, crackling-topped flatbread—then watch the delivery van negotiate an arch built for mules. Clearance is two fingers; wing mirrors fold like obedient ears.

Footpaths that Start at the Edge of Town

Amer’s hinterland rises fast. From the last streetlamp to the summit of Puig de les Ànimes is barely 6 km, but the climb yanks you up 550 m through holm-oak and umbrella-pine. The path is way-marked with faded yellow dashes; after rain the clay grips boots like fresh tar. At the top the view opens north across the Selva basin, industrial roofs glittering faintly in the middle distance, vineyards and cereal plots checkering the foreground. Bring water—there is no bar, no fountain, only a waist-high stone cross whose plaque commemorates a 1936 skirmish. Locals recommend starting at dawn between April and mid-June, when the air is cool enough to keep griffon vultures circling low and the rosemary still holds dew.

If that sounds too brisk, follow the Brugent downstream instead. A 45-minute riverside loop leaves from the football pitch, ducks under poplars and skirts a former textile mill now converted into apartments. Kingfishers flash turquoise in winter; in July the river shrinks to tea-coloured pools where children learn to swim under grandmothers’ parasols. The council has laid two picnic tables but refrained from kiosks—bring your own bocadillo or queue at the bakery on Carrer Major for pa amb tomàquet wrapped in wax paper (€3).

When the Valley Feels the Season

Spring arrives late. Almond blossom peaks in March, a full fortnight after the coast, and night frosts can ambush until early April. The reward is a drawn-out wild-flower sequence: first celandine, then rockrose, finally orchids in May. Autumn is the inverse—warm days linger well into October, ideal for cycling the back-road loop to Anglès (13 km, 240 m cumulative ascent). Winter, however, tightens its grip. Mornings stay fog-bound until eleven, and the GIV-6701 access road ices over often enough that the council keeps sacks of grit outside the cemetery gates. If you’re renting, consider chains from December through February; buses from Girona still run but drop to four a day.

Summer heat pools in the valley. By early July the Brugent slows to a trickle and shade becomes currency. Afternoons, the town empties as residents retreat behind thick walls; shops reopen at six. The upside is festival season. The Festa Major (first weekend in August) closes the main street for a sardana circle that lasts until the band’s cheeks balloon purple. Outsiders are welcome; no wristbands, no entry fee, just bring enthusiasm and a seat cushion.

Eating Without the Sea in Sight

Menus here read like an inland ledger: mountain rice with rabbit and butifarra, pig’s trotter stewed with turnip tops, escudella soup thick enough to stand a spoon. Can Xarau, the only full-sized restaurant, serves a three-course weekday menú del dia for €14; wine from the barrel is included, dessert is either crema catalana or the local fresh cheese recuit drizzled with honey. Reservations are wise at weekends when cyclists from Girona descend, lycra loud against the stone interiors. For lighter fare, the bakery does a credible embotits platter—fuet, llonganissa and xorizo—to take away. Vegetarians survive on grilled * escalivada* and the reliable tomato bread; vegans should plan self-catering.

Beds, Buses and Other Practicalities

Accommodation totals two official options. The three-star Hostal Amer has sixteen rooms facing the river; doubles cost €65–€75 depending on season, breakfast an extra €8. A pair of rural cottages in the municipal district sleep four to six and run €90–€120 per night with minimum two-night stays. Neither offers a pool; swimmers use the public piscina municipal (€3 day ticket) open June to September, fed by mountain water that shocks the lungs even in August.

Public transport hinges on a Teisa coach line that links Girona bus station with Amer in 45 minutes (€3.60 single, cash only). Departures are roughly every two hours; the last return leaves at 19:30, so day-trippers need an early start. By car, take the C-63 towards Santa Coloma, then follow signs; the final 7 km corkscrew downhill—keep headlights on and expect goats around the hairpins. Parking inside the old core is residents-only; leave the car by the river and walk the last 200 m.

Worth It? Ask the Clock

Amer will not hand you selfie moments or boutique shopping bags. What it offers is a calibration exercise: a place where bread is baked at 6 a.m. and sold out by 9, where the monastery door stands open but no one hustles you inside, where the evening news still travels mouth to mouth across the plaça. Come for one night and you might leave after breakfast, satisfied you have “done” it. Stay for three and you’ll notice your own cadence shift—longer pauses, softer consonants, an impulse to look up at the bell-tower every hour even though you already know the time.