Figaró-Montmany

The 07:47 from Barcelona Plaça Catalunya carries a tell-tale cargo at weekends: pairs of walking boots dangling from rucksacks, binoculars bumping against canvas, the odd Ordnance Survey-style map folded beside a paper cup of cortado. Fifty minutes later the train empties at La Garriga and a handful of passengers squeeze into the waiting taxi van for the final ten-minute climb. By 09:15 they are 330 m higher, standing in the narrow main street of Figaró-Montmany while the driver pockets a €12 fare and disappears downhill. The silence that follows is immediate, broken only by the clink of a brass bell on the bakery door. No souvenir stands, no ticket touts, just the smell of pine and yesterday’s wood smoke.

Stone, Soil and a Dash of Sea Air

Figaró and Montmany were separate hamlets until 1972, when a bureaucratic handshake merged two clusters of stone farmhouses scattered across south-facing slopes. The union left a village that still feels like an afterthought to agriculture: lanes end at barn doors, tractors park beside the pavement, and every second gateway reveals a vegetable patch the size of a London front garden. Altitude keeps the air cooler than the coast 45 km away; on clear winter mornings you can pick out the thin silver line of the Mediterranean beyond the corrugated ridges of the pre-littoral range. Come July that distant glimmer tempts day-trippers who imagine a quick beach-and-mountain double bill. They generally retreat by lunchtime: the beach is 50 minutes of corkscrew road, the village shade is scarce, and the baker sells out of bocadillos before 11.

What remains is a working parish of some 1,100 souls whose income once came almost entirely from olives, almonds and the vines that still stripe the lower terraces. Many of the square stone masías date from the seventeenth century, though satellite dishes now sprout beside timber balconies. Most are private, so the architecture is best appreciated from the web of footpaths that fan out above the rooftops. Start with the fifteen-minute stroll to the Ermita de Sant Cristòfol; the Romanesque doorway is plain, but the vantage point opposite lets you see how the houses huddle along a ridge like ships tied to a quay.

Walking Without the Queue

Montseny Natural Park begins where the tarmac ends. From the upper edge of Figaró a gravel track climbs through holm-oak and Aleppo pine to the Coll de la Font de l’Escaleta (850 m) in just under two hours. The gradient is steady rather than brutal, but the midsummer sun is unfiltered: carry more water than you think reasonable and expect your phone to lose signal halfway. The reward is a saw-edge horizon of even higher peaks and, on haze-free days, the whole Vallès plain rolled out like a green carpet below.

Shorter loops suit fair-weather strollers. Markers with green-and-white stripes lead east to the abandoned Montmany mill, where ivy has swallowed the stone wheel house and nightingales rehearse from February onwards. Allow ninety minutes there and back, plus time to sit on the crumbling wall and debate whether the stream still warrants the name “river”. Mountain-bike tyres have carved parallel grooves into the softer sections, so watch your footing after rain; the clay here clings like wet biscuit.

Cyclists arrive clutching print-outs of profiles that never look too alarming, then discover the hidden 12 % ramps between farmsteads. The smoothest ride is the BV-5302 service road towards Aiguafreda: light traffic, glimpses of the Congost gorge, and a café in La Garriga that understands the importance of a proper flat white. Serious climbers continue to the Turó de l’Home (1,706 m), but that is a 45-km round trip with 1,300 m of ascent—best treated as a day’s work, not a gentle spin.

Eating and the Art of Planning Ahead

Figaró’s gastronomic heartbeat is seasonal. Wild-mushroom season (October-November) brings weekend specials of xatonada (a warm frisée salad with pancetta and almonds), while late winter means stews thick with white ganxet beans that taste faintly of chestnut. The village itself offers two proper restaurants and one bar that serves tapas until the cook feels like stopping. Can Cuch, five minutes up the hill in an old farmhouse, does a weekday menú del dia for €22 that includes wine and a panna cotta respectable enough to please a Devon granny. Book; even mid-week they sell out once the first table of eight arrives.

Self-caterers should shop before 19:00. The mini-market stocks UHT milk, tinned tuna and surprisingly good local olives, but fresh fish means a drive to La Garriga’s Saturday market. Vegetarians survive on roasted escalivada and the excellent tomato bread that every bakery knocks out by the slab. Sunday is a desert: even the bakery shuts, so buy your croissants on Saturday or embrace the Catalan tradition of day-old pa amb tomàquet toasted and rubbed with garlic.

When to Come, When to Leave

April and May turn the lower slopes purple with thyme and the temperature hovers around 18 °C—perfect for walking without the sweat patch. Autumn echoes the show in reverse, adding golden chestnut woods and the smell of newly pressed olives. Mid-July to mid-August is hot (30 °C plus) and surprisingly noisy: the village fiestas feature firecrackers at 08:00 and disco beats until 02:00. Light sleepers should avoid the long weekend nearest 10 July or choose a room at the back of the house.

Winter brings a different kind of quiet. Night frosts are common from December to February, and the occasional dusting of snow shuts the higher tracks. The upside is empty paths and hotel rates that dip below €70 for a double. Check that your accommodation has heating—stone walls two feet thick stay cool in summer but behave like a fridge in December.

Getting There, Getting Stuck, Getting Out

Public transport works if you treat it like a Swiss clock. R3 Rodalies trains leave Barcelona hourly; the 50-minute journey costs €4.60 each way. From La Garriga a shared taxi (€12-15) completes the trip, but the last service uphill is around 21:00 and the final train back to the city departs at 22:00. Miss it and a private cab costs €70—more than most village B&Bs. Car hire from Barcelona airport adds flexibility: take the C-17 towards Vic, exit at La Garriga and follow the BV-5302 for six kilometres of hairpins. Parking is free but spaces vanish during Saturday market; arrive before 11:00 or prepare to squeeze against a dry-stone wall.

Mobile coverage is patchy once you leave the main street; download offline maps before you set off. There is no cash machine—nearest ATM is beside La Garriga station—so bring euros. Cards are accepted at Can Cuch and the pharmacy, but the baker prefers coins and the taxi driver insists on them.

A Parting Glance

Figaró-Montmany will not change your life. It offers no Instagram museum, no beach club, no medieval cathedral to tick off. What it does provide is a place where the bread is still warm at seven, where the mountain begins at the edge of the car park, and where the loudest morning sound is the click of gardening shears. Come prepared—boots, water, a paperback for Sunday—and the village repays with clear air, empty trails and the creeping realisation that “nothing to do” can be a perfectly satisfactory itinerary.