Matadepera

The pine scent hits before you've even parked. At 500 metres above sea level, Matadepera's air carries none of Barcelona's diesel heaviness—just resin, warm stone and the occasional whiff of someone else's barbecue. Thirty kilometres from the Catalan capital, this isn't the postcard Spain of orange trees and flamenco. It's something more unexpected: a commuter village where forests push against garden fences, and where Friday evening means trail runners trotting past mums with prams.

A Village That Forgot to Be One

Matadepera's centre takes nine minutes to cross. The eighteenth-century church of Sant Joan squats at the top of a short slope; a couple of cafés, a pharmacy and the bakery that stubbornly opens on Sundays cluster nearby. That's it. No souvenir shops, no tapas trail, no plaza mayor ringed with geraniums. Instead, the place dissolves into modernista villas and gated estates whose residents catch the 6.42 a.m. coach to Barcelona's financial district.

This split personality explains the housing stock. You'll see restored stone farmhouses (masías) sharing lanes with 1990s red-brick piles that wouldn't look out of place in Guildford. British buyers call it "Catalan Surrey" for a reason: good schools, low crime, and house prices that make Esher look reasonable. A four-bedroom villa with pool and mountain view starts around €650,000—steep for Spain, cheap after London.

The upside is space. Plots are measured in thousand-metre chunks, not London handkerchiefs. The downside is dependence. Without a railway station, every supermarket run, school run, airport run involves the C-58 motorway. On a good day you're at Barcelona terminal in 35 minutes; on a Friday in July, allow two hours of steaming traffic.

Walking Before Breakfast

Trailheads begin where the asphalt ends. Literally. Walk to the end of Carrer Sant Llorenç and a dirt track continues straight into the Serra de l'Obac, a 13,000-hectare wedge of holm oak and white pine protected since 1987. Within fifteen minutes you can be alone but for the sound of your own breathing and the occasional clank of a distant dog collar.

The signposting is Catalan-only yet colour-coded, so map-reading panic is optional. An easy loop from the Can Mira picnic area reaches the eleventh-century Castell de Matadepera in 45 minutes. The castle itself is privately owned—expect only a locked gate and a view—but the panorama justifies the climb: the whole Vallès plain laid out like a green-and-tan chessboard, Terrassa's blocks tiny below.

Keener hikers continue to La Mola, a 3.5-hour haul that finishes at a sandstone monastery turned climbers' hostel. Start early; even at altitude summer temperatures brush 34 °C and shade is patchy. Spring and autumn deliver the sweet spot—wild rosemary scent, visible snow on the Pyrenean horizon, and the faint possibility you'll meet a wild boar rather than a British expat with walking poles.

Cyclists matter here too. Saturday mornings see muddy cohorts returning from 40-kilometre forest circuits, wheels caked ochre. Rental bikes are scarce; bring your own or phone BikeTerrassa, who'll deliver a decent Giant to your villa for €30 a day.

What You'll Actually Eat

Forget tasting menus. Matadepera feeds families, not foodies, and it does so with sturdy Catalan classics that translate well to British palates. Weekday lunch means menú del día: three courses, bread, wine, water and dessert for €14-16 almost everywhere. Expect grilled chicken, romesco sauce (think red-pesto-meets-satay) and crème catalan indistinguishable from its French cousin.

Restaurant 787 occupies a 1905 modernista house on the main drag. Inside, original mosaic floors survive beneath toddlers' high chairs. Calçot season (February-March) turns the terrace into a smoky theatre: diners in plastic bibs dip 25-centimetre spring onions into salvita sauce, then bite off the softened white shaft. It's messy, sociable and—crucially—vegetarian-friendly for any uneaten-spouse situations.

For takeaway, Obrador de Xocolata crafts Bombons de Matadepera: walnut-sized chocolates flavoured with local honey or mountain rosemary. They survive the suitcase home better than chorizo and raise fewer eyebrows at customs. Pair them with coffee from Forn Pa de Vila, the village's sole Sunday-morning lifeline, where elderly residents queue for cocas (flatbreads) and gossip in equal measure.

The Seasonal Catch

August empties the place. Half the restaurants close; the doctor's surgery runs reduced hours. What looks tranquil in May becomes semi-comatose. Book restaurants, rent cars with air-con and assume taxis will be mythical after 10 p.m.

Winter flips the script. Night temperatures drop to 2 °C; villas rely on pellet stoves that need daily feeding. But the upside is crystal air, empty trails and the possibility of seeing the Pyrenees snow-capped from your bedroom window. A handful of Nordic walkers treat the village like their private track; otherwise you have the mountain to yourself.

Spring brings a different hazard: pollen. Pine and cypress release clouds that turn rental-car windscreens yellow. Pack antihistamines if hay fever is your nemesis, or time visits for late May when the olive bloom has passed.

The Bottom Line

Matadepera works best as a base, not a destination. Rent a house with a terrace, hire a car and alternate city days with mountain mornings. You'll eat well enough, sleep soundly and wake to bird song rather than bin lorries. Just don't expect nightlife, public transport or anyone who understands the British obsession with brown sauce. Bring good shoes, a Spanish phrasebook and realistic expectations; the village will handle the rest.