Polinyà

At 123 metres above sea level—barely higher than the summit of Britain’s Ben Nevis—Polinyà sits low enough to feel Mediterranean heat yet close enough to the Pyrenean foothills to catch a cold tramontana wind. The result is a place where tomato vines grow metres from lorry depots and the church bells compete with forklift beeps. Twenty kilometres northwest of Barcelona, this 5,000-strong municipality is neither mountain retreat nor coastal escape; it is a working comarca town whose identity is stitched together from irrigated fields, 1970s warehouses and short streets that still remember when everyone knew the baker’s dog by name.

A Parish, a Plaque, a Pause

Start in the wedge-shaped plaça where the parish church of Santa Eulàlia keeps watch. The building is no Sagrada Família—its walls are plain stone, the bell-tower more functional than fairytale—but it has been rebuilt after every war and drought since the Middle Ages, and the interior smells of candle wax and elderly timber. Sunday Mass finishes around 11 a.m.; if the doors are still open afterwards, slip inside to see the sixteenth-century font where generations of Polinyà children were christened before heading off to factory jobs in Sabadell or Terrassa. Outside, a modest ceramic panel explains (in Catalan only) that the square served as a wartime vegetable market. Read it quickly: the only bench faces the afternoon sun and metal arm-rests get hot.

The old centre is three streets by three. Iron balconies sag with geraniums, stone doorways narrow to fit medieval shoulders, and every so often a aluminium garage door intrudes like a rude word in a sonnet. Walk clockwise and you will pass the Forn de Pa bakery where trays of coca—Catalan pizza-bread topped with ham and cheese—leave the oven at 1 p.m. sharp. Buy a square while it is still too hot to hold; the baker will tear a strip of brown paper rather than offer a paper bag, and yes, he expects exact change.

Flat Trails, Slow Wheels

Polinyà’s geography is obligingly level. The Ripoll and Besòs rivers slither past either side of town, their banks sewn with poplars and rubbish after heavy rain. A 4-kilometre loop follows the Ripoll upstream to an old irrigation lock known locally as the “paella bridge” because families set up burners here on Sunday afternoons. The path is tarmacked, shared with tractors, and ideal for children on bikes with stabilisers. Spring brings storks and the smell of chopped alfalfa; in August the river shrinks to a lukewarm trickle where dogs cool their bellies.

Keen cyclists can thread together camins rurals that hop to neighbouring municipalities: Sentmenat’s walled garden at 7 km, Palau-solità’s Modernista pharmacy at 9 km. Gradient never tops 3%, but watch for potato lorries exiting the Pirelli depot at Can Volart—they swing wide and rarely indicate. Mountain bikers looking for rough stuff should drive 25 minutes to Sant Llorenç del Munt; Polinyà itself is pedal-friendly, not adrenaline-fuelled.

Menus, Mercadona and Monday Closures

British stomachs sometimes struggle with late Spanish hours, so note the drill. Breakfast is coffee and a croissant at 10 a.m.; lunch starts at 13:30 and kitchens close by 15:30. Can Coll, on the western ring-road, understands this anxiety. Its grilled chicken arrives without bones, the pa amb tomàquet (bread rubbed with tomato) is served on a side plate so you can moderate the garlic, and high-chairs are available without asking. A two-course lunch with wine costs €16; parking is free and coaches of German hikers use the same yard, so secure your hire-car wing mirrors.

Restaurante Hera, tucked behind the town hall, offers a weekday menú del día at €14. Expect roasted peppers that taste sweet rather than fiery, and a dessert of crema catalana that is essentially Crème Brûlée with a university education. They keep laminated English menus under the counter—request politely. Both places shut on Monday; if you arrive then, the only hot option is the Mercadona supermarket on C/ Major. British visitors are often startled to find shutters down on Sunday: Spanish trading laws still let small towns ban large stores on the Sabbath, so queue early for baguette and sliced ham.

Industrial Poetry

Beyond the fields, the polígon industrial stretches like a low-rise Milton Keynes but with palm trees. Warehouses assemble car dashboards, print fashion catalogues and store Amazon returns. It is not beautiful until you notice details: a 1950s brick chimney repurposed as a mobile-phone mast, a mothballed textile mill colonised by sparrows, a roadside shrine to the Virgin where lorry drivers leave half-empty bottles of cologne. Guided tours do not exist; simply cycle the grid of Carrers A, B and C at 8 a.m. and watch the shift change—an honest slice of Catalan economy that guidebooks usually skip.

Festivals: Devils, Towers and Early Bedtimes

The main fiesta, honouring Santa Eulàlia, lands in the first week of September. A correfoc—literally “fire-run”—sees devils with sparklers chase children through the streets; bring cotton clothes and avoid synthetic fibres that singe. Human-tower builders, castellers, attempt a six-storey structure in the square; the collapse zone is marked by a line of folding chairs, so stand behind it unless you fancy a small Catalan in your lap. Events start at 22:00 and finish by 23:30; British parents often applaud the considerate timing.

January brings Sant Antoni, a feast of animals. Locals bring hamsters, horses and the occasional sheep to be blessed outside the church; afterwards, bonfires of pine branches roast potatoes for anyone with a long fork. The morning smells of resin and wet dog; wellingtons are recommended because January dew turns the fields to mud.

Getting There, Getting Out

There is no direct train to Polinyà. From Barcelona airport take the R2 Nord Rodalies to Sabadell (25 min, €4.60) then a taxi for the final 10 minutes—meter should read €12 before tip. A hire car is simpler: leave the C-58 at junction 7, follow signs for “Polinyà Centre” and ignore sat-nav attempts to divert you towards Valencia’s similarly-named village. Parking is free everywhere except the single yellow-lined school zone; avoid 08:00-09:00 and 16:30-17:30 when parents abandon cars at rakish angles.

If all you need is a leg-stretch and coffee, two hours suffices: old-town circuit, river stroll, pastry, done. With a full day you can pair Polinyà with Sabadell’s art-deco railway station or Terrassa’s Romanesque churches—both ten minutes away by car and served by trains back to Barcelona until 23:00.

The Honest Verdict

Polinyà will never compete with Montserrat’s drama or Girona’s Instagram walls. August can feel like a hair-dryer aimed at your face; Monday lunches require advance planning; the river occasionally smells of tractor diesel. Yet for travellers who measure value in everyday detail—bread that costs one euro, a grandmother shouting bingo numbers across the square, a heron landing on an irrigation ditch—it offers a slice of functioning Catalonia without the souvenir stalls. Come for the flat cycle routes, stay for the coca fresh from the oven, and leave before the factories clock off at six.