Sant Julià del Llor i Bonmatí

The Ter runs wide and shallow here, sliding past reed beds that flicker with goldfinches. Stand on the old railway bridge at dawn and you'll see mist rising off the water like steam from a cup—one of those quiet Catalan mornings that makes motorway Britain feel fictional. Sant Julià del Llor i Bonmatí, 160 m above sea level and thirty-five minutes south-west of Girona, isn't dramatically high, yet the air tastes different: cooler, resin-scented, and slow enough to let your pulse drop.

Two hamlets share one parish council. Up-slope, Sant Julià clusters round a tenth-century Benedictine monastery whose sandstone apse catches the first sun. Down on the flood-plain, Bonmatí lines the river with brick mills built when cotton was king. You can walk between the two in twenty minutes, but give it an hour; the lane dips through holm-oak shade, crosses an irrigation channel still fed by a medieval weir, then climbs past smallholdings where geese patrol between the vegetable rows.

Romanesque without the ropes

The monastery keeps irregular hours. If the iron gate is open, slip inside: the nave is narrow, the pillars sober, the capitals carved with foliage that looks more botany than religion. A single bulb lights the altar. No shop, no audio-guide, just the faint smell of beeswax and stone cooled by centuries. When the caretaker locks up he does it unobtrusively; if you hear the key turn, finish your circuit of the tiny cloister and leave by the side door—he'll wait, but he won't advertise the fact.

Below in Bonmatí the mills tell a louder story. Their chimneys rise above warehouses of flaky rose brick, windows tall enough for looms the size of railway carriages. Most are empty now; swallows nest in the hoist beams and ivy explores the loading bays. A couple have been converted—one into airy flats, another into a print-works that smells of ink and fresh bread when the artisan bakery next door fires up at five. There are no heritage boards, so read the stone instead: dates, company names, the occasional English bolt-maker's stamp that followed the textile money up the valley.

Walking tracks that reward laziness

The river path is flat, gravelled and signed simply "Ter". Follow it downstream for ten minutes and you reach the pont vell, a hump-backed bridge widened in 1789 but still wearing its Roman footings. Cow parsley grows through the cracks; cyclists dismount to let elderly locals pass with shopping trolleys. Continue another kilometre and the modern road noise fades, replaced by wagtails and the creak of poplar trunks rubbing together. Kingfishers flash turquoise if you keep your shadow off the water.

Want height without effort? Take the Camí de la Serra from the monastery gate. It's a steady 45-minute pull through oak and scots pine to a ruined watch-tower. The gradient never bites, and the reward is a picnic table positioned exactly at the point where the Pyrenees shoulder into view, snow glinting even in May. Mountain boots are overkill; trainers suffice except after heavy rain when the clay turns skating-rink slick.

Winter sharpens the place. Night frosts silver the car roofs, and the river carries a smell of cold iron. January daytime hovers around 8 °C—no worse than Devon—but the low sun never clears the ridge, so keep moving. Come July the plain bakes; by eleven the thermometer kisses 32 °C and the shade shrinks to ribbon width. Locals vanish indoors, re-emerging at seven to water tomatoes and argue about football. Plan accordingly: walk early, cycle late, siesta under the mulberry behind the station café.

Where to eat without a phrasebook

The only restaurant in Sant Julià itself is La Barca, halfway along the main street. Plastic chairs on the pavement, television mute in the corner, but the charcoal grill is serious. Order mitjana de pollastre—half a chicken, skin blistered, interior still juicy—and a bowl of all-i-oli thick enough to stand a fork in. Weekday menú del día costs €14 and includes wine, dessert, and a second course that might be grilled trout caught ten metres away. They'll split plates if children are picking; no one minds.

Bonmatí adds two more choices. Can Vila, in the old mill owner's house, does a set dinner built around whatever the garden produces—perhaps pumpkin cream, then rabbit with prunes, finally crema catalana scented with lemon thyme. Book ahead; they speak enough English to handle dietary requests but appreciate an email rather than a hopeful knock at eight-thirty. For lighter fare, the station café opens at six for coffee and croissants, closes after lunch, and will make you a bocadillo to take on the river path even when the menu officially says finished.

Getting here, and away again

The Girona–Sant Feliu de Guíxols railway line closed to passengers in 1969, but its bed has become the Carrilet greenway. Hire a bike in Girona's old town (€18 a day, helmet included) and you can freewheel thirty-two kilometres almost entirely downhill to the coast, stopping naturally at the platform that now serves as Sant Julià's unofficial bus shelter. Trains still run to Girona from Barcelona Sants every half-hour; from the same concourse, Sarfa coaches connect to Anglès three times daily, but you'll need a taxi for the last three kilometres unless you enjoy a hot roadside march with a rucksack.

Drivers exit the AP-7 at junction 6, follow the C-25 for ten minutes, then peel off onto the GI-542. Parking is unrestricted except during the Festa Major in late August, when every verge becomes a Renault Scenic. In snowless winters the road stays clear; the municipality owns one gritter and uses it before dawn so locals can reach the Girona factories by six.

A calendar that belongs to residents

The fiesta agenda is short and neighbourly. Late August brings fireworks set off from a tennis-court-sized field behind the monastery—close enough to feel the powder shock in your ribs, small enough that the mayor's wife still chooses the playlist. Bonmatí answers in mid-November with a mushroom fair: folding tables loaded with penny bun, saffron milk-cap and a dozen Catalan varieties you won't find in Borough Market. Experts check your basket for toxic look-alikes; if you haven't foraged, you can buy a plate of grilled rovellons with garlic and parsley for €3.50 and eat it leaning against the chapel wall.

There is no Christmas market, no costumed medieval pageant, no artisan gin distillery. What you get instead is continuity: the same bakery delivering bread by van at nine sharp, the same elderly men playing cards under the plane trees, the river keeping its own hours regardless of who watches. Stay a night and you'll hear the Ter more clearly than any traffic; stay a week and the village starts to feel like a bookmark in a novel you can reopen later. Just remember to draw cash before you arrive—there isn't a machine for miles, and the butcher still prefers coins to contactless.