Rellinars

The morning flight from Gatwick lands at Barcelona before ten. Forty kilometres later, after a toll road and a corkscrew lane that would shame the Stelvio Pass, you reach a stone arch where the only traffic is a farmer on a quad bike moving sheep. That is the first hint Rellinars does not measure time by the clock on your phone.

Altitude 320 m, population 137 dogs and 736 humans (last census). The village sits on a ridge staring across the Vallès basin; on clear winter days the pyramid of Montserrat floats on the horizon like a piece cut out of the neighbouring range. Behind, the Parc Natural de Sant Llorenç del Munt i l’Obac rises in russet waves of conglomerate rock and white-pine forest. No coast here—mistake number one for newcomers who skim the map and assume all Catalan villages come with sand. The sea is 45 minutes away by car, but the locals rarely bother.

Stone, Silence and the Smell of Pine

Park at the entrance—there is only one road in, the BV-1221, and it dead-ends in the square. The church of Sant Genís, 12th-century bones clothed in later centuries, keeps watch from a modest belfry. Bell rings the hour; no other soundtrack except swifts cutting the air and, somewhere further up the lane, a goat bell answering back. British walkers fresh off the Saturday flight tend to stop here, breathe and mutter “bloody hell, it’s quiet.” That reaction is as regular as the church bell.

Houses are built from the mountain itself: honey-coloured stone, tiny windows, doors painted the same oxidised green. Souvenir count is nil; the nearest fridge magnet lives in Terrassa, 18 km down the hill. What you do find is a bakery open three mornings a week, a grocer that doubles as the post office, and a bar that roasts coffee on Thursdays so the whole village smells like a morning in Turin.

Walking Tracks that Start at the Doorstep

You do not need a car once you arrive; every footpath is signed from the centre. The classic half-day loop strikes out past Cal Bernat’s vegetable garden and climbs gently through holm oak to the Ermita de la Salut, a chapel the size of a London studio flat. From the door the view stretches to the Pyrenees on snow-sprinkled days; bring binoculars and you can pick out the antennas on Tibidabo above Barcelona. Allow two hours, sturdy shoes, water. In April the undergrowth glows yellow with Spanish broom; in October the same slope smells of damp mushroom and wet rock.

Serious boots can keep going to La Mola (1 104 m), the sandstone bluff that anchors the park. The monastery of Sant Llorenç up top is an 11th-century Benedictine stronghold turned interpretation centre; entry €5, closed Mondays. The ascent from Rellinars is 600 m of up, mostly on an old mule track shaded by pine. Three hours up, two down, knees permitting. On Sundays the summit cafeteria does a respectable three-course lunch for €16 but runs out of tables at 14:00 sharp—arrive early or carry a picnic.

Cyclists share the lower tracks; the conglomerate is grippy when dry, lethal when wet. Hire bikes in Terrassa if you have not brought your own; no shop in the village. Climbers congregate on the Castellets sector, 15 minutes above the cemetery: 70 routes, grades 4 to 7b, sun until two, then shade. Check park restrictions March–June; some walls close for nesting falcons.

What You Will Actually Eat

lunchtime Cal Bernat serves the only fixed-price menu (€18, bread and wine included). Expect roast chicken with romesco—smoked peppers and almonds, mild enough for timid British palates—followed by crema catalana and industrial-strength coffee. Vegetarians get escalivada, a smoky tumble of aubergine and peppers. Book the day before; the kitchen is basically someone’s mum and a single oven.

Evenings are more improvised. Ca la Pepa opens Friday–Sunday and will grill entrecôte or sea bass on request, but you must tell her by Thursday so she can drive to the market. The local cava is €3.50 a glass, cheaper than the Italian fizz on most UK high streets and twice as quaffable. If you are self-catering, stock up in Vacarisses on the way up—Rellinars’ tiny shop shuts for siesta at 13:30 and does not reopen until the owner finishes her domino game, timing variable.

Where to Sleep (All Twelve Rooms)

Two choices, no chains. Masia Casa Joana is a 17th-century farmhouse ten minutes’ walk from the church. Five bedrooms, thick stone walls, a pool cut into the rock and a terrace that frames Montserrat at sunset. Dinner on request (plain grilled fish if you ask nicely). Doubles €110–€130 B&B, closed January.

Alternative: Hostal Ca la Irene, six rooms above the bakery, simpler but spotless. Shared terrace overlooking the ravine; earplugs recommended if the church bell worries you. €65 a night; she takes cash only, euros obviously. August fills with Barcelona families escaping the coast—book early or prepare to drive home.

Getting Here Without the Drama

Fly to Barcelona, pick up the smallest rental you can squeeze into—the BV-1221 narrows to a single-track hairpin in places and meeting a lorry full of cement is memorable. From the airport take the C-16 toll road towards Manresa, exit 54 (Castellar), then follow signs for Rellinars. Total driving time 55 minutes unless you hit Catalan school-holiday traffic, in which case add 30.

No direct public transport exists. Nearest train is Terrassa, then taxi €35. Some hardy souls combine a Rodalies train to Castellar del Vallès plus a pre-booked taxi (WhatsApp the only firm, Jesús, lovely chap, speaks zero English). Allow 90 minutes from Plaça Catalunya plus the taxi fare—still cheaper than airport parking for a long weekend.

When It All Goes Quiet

Winter brings a different village. Daytime 10 °C, nights scraping zero. The forest smells of damp earth and wood smoke; mist pools in the ravine so the church appears to float. Roads stay open but the upper monastery track can ice over—micro-spikes useful. Spring is the sweet spot: green wheat in the terraces, almond blossom outside Cal Bernat, daylight until eight. Summer is hot (32 °C) yet bearable thanks to altitude; still, Spanish August weekends pack the two guesthouses and every parking space. Autumn means mushrooms, reddish vines, and the return of silence after the Barcelona families head home.

One cash machine, in the bakery, works when it feels like it. Bring euros. Vodafone and EE drop to one bar on the square; download offline maps before you leave the C-16. Sunday lunchtime everything shuts—picnic or reserve. Ignore these details and you will discover them the hard way, probably while hungry.

Leave the car unlocked and nobody touches it; leave a hire-sat-nav on the seat and even the local dogs look offended by your lack of manners. Rellinars is not pretending to be quaint—it simply never stopped being itself. If that sounds like your sort of place, come before the rest of Britain realises the bells outnumber the people.