Renau

The church bells strike eleven and the only other sound is a tractor coughing to life somewhere beyond the stone houses. Renau doesn't do noise. Even the dogs seem to observe the siesta.

This flyspeck of 158 souls sits 175 metres above sea level in a fold between the coastal plain and the Priorat uplands, 35 minutes' drive inland from Tarragona's Roman ruins. The village occupies less land than a medium-sized supermarket car park; you can walk every street in twelve minutes and still have time to read the names on the letterboxes. That is precisely the point. Renau trades in silence, not spectacle.

What passes for a centre

Sant Miquel church squats at the top of the single slight hill, its ochre walls the colour of dried tobacco. The door is usually locked—Father comes over from neighbouring El Milà only when the diary demands—but the tiny square outside functions as the village living room. Elderly residents appear at dusk, lowering themselves onto the stone bench with the deliberation of people who have done this for forty years. They will nod at strangers, answer questions about bus times that no longer exist, then resume their contemplation of the almond trees across the lane.

Below the church the lanes narrow to shoulder width. Houses are built from honey-coloured limestone hauled out of local quarries a century ago; many still have the arched wooden doors that once admitted a mule and cart. Some fronts are freshly sand-blasted, others slump gently toward the gutter, held upright by nothing more than ivy and optimism. The effect is not picturesque—too many satellite dishes sprout from the walls—but it is honest, and honesty is a dwindling commodity along this coast.

Fields that change colour faster than Devon

Step past the last street lamp and you are immediately among almond and olive groves that roll toward the horizon in gentle waves. The soil is thin, rust-red and strewn with pale stones; farmers call it panal, bread-loaf land, because it cracks into plate-sized slabs every summer. Colours shift with the calendar: luminous green after January rains, straw blond by June, then the dull bronze of ploughed earth once the cereal crop is in. On very clear days you can glimpse a silver thread of sea to the east, but most of the time the view stops at the next ridge of hills, ten kilometres away.

There are no way-marked trails, simply a lattice of farm tracks that link scattered masías—stone farmhouses built like small fortresses, their gates painted the same dark green favoured by Catalan vintners. Walkers are tolerated provided they close every gate and keep dogs on leads; hunting season runs October to February, when fluorescent vests are sensible. Distances feel shorter than they are because the terrain is undemanding: a circular loop south to the ruined chapel of Sant Joan de Masmolets and back is 6 km with barely 100 m of ascent, yet you are unlikely to meet anyone between the village boundary and the first glimpse of the chapel's broken bell tower.

The hotel that doubles as the town hall

Accommodation options are binary: stay at Hotel Peralta or drive elsewhere. The place occupies a nineteenth-century mercantile house on the western edge; inside, the floors slope like a ship's deck and the Wi-Fi gives up entirely if someone closes the courtyard door too hard. British visitors generally approve: rooms are scrubbed, plumbing is modern, and dinner arrives on heavy pottery plates that retain heat. The set menu—usually escalivada of aubergine followed by rabbit stewed with prunes—repeats every third evening, so self-catering apartments in nearby Montblanc can look attractive after night four.

Crucially, Peralta is also the only establishment selling alcohol within a 12 km radius. The bar opens onto the street; locals treat it as a social club, drifting in for a quick cafe amb llet at seven in the morning and lingering over a glass of vi ranci once the television news finishes. Credit-card terminals exist but are regarded with suspicion; bring cash or prepare to wash dishes.

When to come, when to flee

April and late-September offer the kindest light: mornings soft enough for photographs without filters, afternoons warm but not ferocious. By mid-July the valley turns into a clay oven; temperatures nudge 38 °C and even geckos seek shade. August brings the festa major, three evenings of live bands, mobile bars and a foam party in the football pitch that doubles the population for a weekend. Book early or stay away, according to tolerance for chart hits played at aircraft-decibel level.

Winter is a gamble. Blue-sky days of 14 °C alternate with mist that pools so thickly you cannot see the church from the bakery. Snow is rare but frost whitens the olive groves most January dawns; the hotel switches on heating reluctantly and charges extra for the privilege.

Bread, oil and the nearest supermarket

Renau has no shop. The bakery van honks its arrival at 09:30 every day except Monday, selling loaves from a tray on the passenger seat, but for anything more complicated you drive ten kilometres to Montblanc's Condis or the larger Bon Preu on the industrial fringe of Valls. Restaurant choices expand accordingly: Cal Ganxo in El Milà does a serviceable three-course lunch for €14, while Montblanc's L'Antic Forn will grill calçots (giant spring onions) over vine shoots between January and March, a spectacle worth timing a trip around.

Olive oil is the local currency. Everyone knows someone whose cousin presses fruit from family groves; buy a five-litre garrafa for around €25 and you will be greeted like long-lost family on return visits. The denomination is simply "Tarragona", nothing grander, but the oil is peppery and green enough to make supermarket extra-virgin taste like tractor diesel.

Leaving without saying goodbye

Check-out is low-key: hand back the key, nod at the proprietor, push open the street door that no-one ever locks. The bells will still be striking the hour as you load cases into the boot, and the same tractor will probably still be idling somewhere beyond the almond trees. Renau does not wave you off; it merely resumes the small, quiet business of being itself. That, rather than any brochure promise, is why some drivers find themselves taking the same turning off the C-14 a year later, surprised to have missed a place whose main landmark is a church you still have not managed to get inside.