Sabadell

A Textile City That Never Asked to Be Pretty

The morning shift change still happens at 7:43 a.m. sharp. Crowds pour out of the Renfe train from Barcelona, coffees in hand, IDs swinging from lanyards. They march past brick warehouses whose chimneys stopped smoking decades ago and disappear into glass offices that used to be cotton mills. Sabadell, 190 metres above sea-level on the dry plain of Vallès Occidental, makes no apology for looking like a place that works for a living.

British visitors usually arrive by accident: a cheaper Airbnb than Barcelona, a conference at the trade-fair complex, a Ryanair flight diverted to Girona. What they find is a city of 215,000 that refuses to pose for photos. Concrete flats rise straight from the pavement; graffiti tags climb as high as the ladders reach. Yet the further you walk, the more the city reveals what it did with its nineteenth-century fortune: Modernista yarn factories turned into museums, workers’ cafés with marble tables older than the Queen, and a Saturday market loud enough to drown out the traffic.

The Rambla That Isn’t on Postcards

Start at the top of the Rambla, where the 1904 Casa Turull glints in green and ochre tiles. It is not Gaudí—Juli Batllevell had a tighter budget and a shorter deadline—but the iron balconies still curl like snapped ribbons. From here the street drops gently for one kilometre, flanked by shoe shops, lottery kiosks and bars that open at 6 a.m. for workers clocking off the night shift.

Half-way down, the Mercat Central smells of damp paper and just-washed lettuce. Stall-holders shout prices in Catalan; if you answer in hesitant Spanish they switch to slower, louder Catalan. A plastic tub of chanterelles costs €7 in season, a wedge of mató goat’s cheese €3. There is no tourist menu, no neon “English spoken” sign. Pointing works; so does learning the words “un quilo, si us plau”.

The Rambla ends in Plaça de Sant Roc, a square that functions more like a civic waiting room. The fourteenth-century church of Sant Fèlix keeps one eye on cashpoint queues, the other on teenagers vaping beside the fountain. Inside, the air is cool and smells of wax and stone. A side chapel displays a frayed banner carried by Sabadell volunteers in 1714, the year Barcelona fell to the Bourbons. No ropes, no audio guide, just a laminated A4 sheet someone has to remember to replace when it fades.

Factory Smoke Replaced by Museum Dust

Ten minutes east, the Museu d’Història occupies the old Vapor Aymerich mill, whose roofline of saw-tooth skylights once lit 30,000 spindles. Exhibits explain how sheep from Aragón became calico sold in Manchester, and why the city’s nickname—“the Catalan Manchester”—is not the compliment it sounds. Interactive screens let you drop a virtual shuttlecock loom; the real ones are still there, oiled and silent, as if the workers had simply popped out for a smoke.

Entry is free on the first Sunday of each month; every other day it’s €5, cash only, exact change appreciated. Doors shut at 2 p.m., reopen at 4 p.m.—a siesta rhythm that catches many day-trippers out. If you arrive at 1.55 p.m. the caretaker will hurry you through in Catalan, body language making it clear he has potatoes boiling at home.

Across the park, the Museu d’Art has smaller rooms but cooler air-conditioning. Medieval altarpieces share floor space with lurid Fifties abstracts donated by local factory owners trying to look modern. Labels are only in Catalan; the guard shrugs: “Google Translate is your friend.” Monday visitors find the doors locked—worth remembering if you fly home that evening.

Parks Where the City Comes to Argue

Parc de Catalunya was once the mill’s private reservoir. Now pedalos circle the lake at €6 for half an hour, while grandmothers push toddlers on swings that squeak in the same rhythm as the looms they used to work. On summer evenings the temperature drops two degrees under the plane trees; couples spread blankets and open tins of Estrella, arguing quietly about whose mother will host Sunday lunch.

Walk north to Parc del Nord and you’ll find the Torre de l’Aigua, a Modernista water tower shaped like a minaret dressed in bricks. Climb the 200 steps on the first Sunday of the month (€2, children free) and the whole plain opens out: Terrassa’s factories to the west, the Tibidabo funicular crawling up its distant hill, the Pyrenees floating like a rumour on the horizon.

Eating After the Factories Knocked Off

British stomachs often give up first. Lunch starts at 2 p.m.; dinner rarely before 9. If you arrive at noon expecting a full menu you’ll be offered “un entrepà”—a baguette with something inside—and a look that says you’ve misunderstood the concept of food.

Head for Raval de Dins, a side street where Rice Restaurant serves arroz negro that will turn your tongue purple. They’ll produce an English menu without rolling eyes, and will swap squid for courgettes if you ask nicely. Three courses with wine lands around €24 a head, cheaper than one plate in central Barcelona.

When homesickness strikes, Kame House Kitchen on Sant Vicenç does ramen with the same reverence a Sabadell mill once gave Egyptian cotton. Expect to queue with Catalan teenagers who discovered anime before they discovered their own grandmothers’ cooking. Portions are large enough to share; the chilli warning symbols are not decorative.

Hills, Heat and the Wrong Shoes

The city boundary nudges the Parc Natural de Sant Llorenç del Munt i l’Obac, 20 minutes by bus or €12 in a Saturday taxi. Trails start at 300 m and climb quickly; summer sun ricochets off white limestone and can push 35 °C by 11 a.m. British hikers in beach trainers regularly turn back two kilometres in, soles melting and water finished. Bring two litres each, a hat, and download the free ICC map before you lose signal.

The reward is Monestir de Sant Llorenç, an eleventh-century Benedictine ruin wedged between boulders like a stone ship run aground. Entrance is free; the café inside the old refectory sells warm Fanta and the best tortilla for miles. Sunday buses back to town stop at 6 p.m.; miss one and you’re thumb-hitching with climbers.

Getting There, Getting Out

Rodalies line R4 links Sabadell with Barcelona-Plaça Catalunya every 15 minutes. A day-return is €8.40, cheaper than two single London Underground fares, and the journey takes 28 minutes—faster than commuting from Reading to Paddington. Trains are clean, punctual and staffed by inspectors who refuse to believe a phone screenshot counts as a ticket. Print yours, or face a €50 fine that will wipe out the savings on your cheap accommodation.

If you land at Girona, a coach to the city train station and a regional service via Granollers brings you to Sabadell in under two hours for €11 total. From Barcelona airport, take the airport train to Sant Andreu Comtal and change for Sabadell—quicker than the metro-plus-tram combination the tourist office still puts on leaflets printed in 2008.

The City That Will Not Flatter You

Sabadell will never make the cover of a glossy Catalonia brochure. It is noisy, concrete, allergic to English and indifferent to whether you “discover” it. Yet if you want to see how a place converts mill smoke into museum dust, how workers’ cafés become sushi bars without losing their regulars, and how a city can face away from the sea and still make a living, it is worth the 20-kilometre detour from Barcelona’s selfie queues. Just remember to learn three Catalan words, carry coins for the bus, and abandon the idea that every Spanish city should look like a postcard. Sabadell does not care what you expected—and that, finally, is what makes it interesting.