Gallifa

The church bell strikes three, and the only other sound is a farmer starting his tractor somewhere below the ridge. From the stone bench beside Sant Pere de Gallifa, Barcelona feels like a rumour—technically 45 kilometres away, but separated by a wall of pine-covered folds that might as well be 450.

Gallifa perches at 500 m on the last wrinkle of the pre-coastal range before the land drops to the Vallès plain. That moderate altitude is enough to shave three or four degrees off the city temperature, so even in July you can walk the lane to the ruined water mill without wilting. Come January, though, the wind scuds across the plateau and the single road in can glaze overnight; locals keep winter tyres in the barn for a reason.

There is no high street, no gift shop, no Saturday market. The population hovers around 180, and the village footprint is small enough to cross in the time it takes a British visitor to finish an ice cream. What you get instead is a scatter of stone farmhouses, many still roofed with curved Roman tiles held down by moss and gravity, and a web of dirt tracks that fan out into the 14,000-hectare Sant Llorenç del Munt i l'Obac Natural Park.

The walking starts literally at the last lamppost. One minute you're beside the phone box (a glass-and-aluminium relic that still works), the next you're under holm oaks on the GR-172. Signposts give times rather than distances—Cova de l'Ós, 45 min; La Mola monastery, 3 h 30—and the paths are graded by how scratched your shins will be. Spring brings the best colour palette: poppies in the abandoned wheat terraces, yellow broom on the ridges, and the odd flash of turquoise from an Iberian magpie. After a dry summer the same route turns sepia and every footstep raises dust that powders your socks.

Cyclists arrive with mountain bikes lashed to hatchbacks. The forest tracks climb steadily rather than brutally—think 200 m gain every 5 km—so you can spin rather than grunt. Loose pea-gravel on the bends means an over-the-bars moment is never far away; tyre width of 2.2 in or bigger is wise. A popular 22 km loop threads north to Matadepera, dips into the shady Torrent de la Bleda, then corkscrews back up to Gallifa with views that open like a pop-up book: Montserrat's serrated outline to the west, the Pyrenees ghosting the horizon on very clear days.

History here is under your feet rather than behind ropes. The parish church began life in the 11th century as a single-cell Romanesque box; later centuries tacked on a bell tower and a Baroque altarpiece that locals still repaint when funds allow. No ticket desk, no audio guide—just push the heavy door and step into a cool that smells of candle wax and old stone. If the keyholder is around (usually the house opposite with the green shutters) you can climb the tower for a fiver; the stair is narrow enough to make a six-footer duck.

Outside, the graveyard tilts with the slope, so the dead have a permanent view better than most hotel terraces. Look for the 1949 tomb of the village teacher, its ironwork desk and open book still rust-free thanks to the dry air. Catalan epitaphs favour brevity: "Ha mort, però viu"—He has died, but he lives.

Food options are thin on the ground. There is no pub, no tapas crawl, no chippy equivalent. The single bar opens Thursday to Sunday only, runs on generator power, and closes when the last customer leaves. Bring a sandwich, or book ahead at Cal Titus, a farmhouse-turned-restaurant 3 km down the track towards Vacarisses. They serve a three-course menú del dia for €19 (bread and wine included) built around whatever the owner's mother picked that morning—maybe wild asparagus omelette, followed by rabbit with rosemary and potatoes roasted in the wood oven. Vegetarians get giant beans stewed with saffron; vegans should probably pack biscuits.

Water is drinkable from the public fountain, but phone signal is patchy and 4G arrives only on the upper cemetery terrace—locals joke the dead get better coverage. If you need cash, the nearest ATM is back in Castellbell i el Vilar, 12 km of winding tarmac away, so fill your wallet before you leave the coast.

Accommodation means either a holiday rental masia sleeping ten, or a mattress in the refuge attached to the football ground. The refuge has hot showers, a communal kitchen, and costs €15 a night, but you must WhatsApp the caretaker the day before. Sheets are not supplied; bring a travel liner or prepare for itchy wool blankets that smell of campfire. The upside is night skies dark enough to see the Milky Way spill across the horizon—something impossible from the Costa Brava balcony lights.

Timing matters. Easter week brings processions so low-key that visitors sometimes outnumber worshippers; still, the single lane clogs with parked cars and the bakery in neighbouring Rubí sells out of croissants by 9 a.m. August is hot, dry and largely empty—many owners shutter their houses and head to the beach, so the village feels like a film set waiting for actors. September offers the sweet spot: mornings crisp enough for a fleece, afternoons warm enough to eat outside, mushrooms popping up along the verges and the grape harvest in full swing down in the plain.

Leave time for the short detour to the abandoned mas of can Serra, 25 minutes south-east. Roofless since the 1950s, its stone doorway frames a picture of collapsing beams and sky that could hang in the Tate. The track passes through a hazel grove; in October locals sack up the nuts for panellets, the almond sweets served on All Saints. Picking is tolerated if you leave the low branches for the elderly couple who still live in the half-restored cottage next door.

Gallifa will never tick the "must-see" box for first-time Spain visitors, and that is precisely its appeal. It offers space, silence and the small satisfactions of finding your own way: choosing the left fork because a redstart flashed that way, discovering a medieval threshing circle now carpeted with wild thyme, realising the distant rumble is not traffic but thunder rolling along the Llobregat valley. If that sounds like too little, stay on the coast. If it sounds like just enough, fill your water bottle and start walking.