La Garriga

The train doors slide open at La Garriga and the air feels different. Thirty-five minutes earlier you were inhaling diesel fumes on Barcelona's Passeig de Gràcia. Now it's pine resin, warm earth and something faintly mineral that makes you think of a Devon spa town. At 252 metres above sea level, the temperature drops just enough for your shirt to stop sticking to your back.

This isn't another mountain village trading on rustic charm. La Garriga is something trickier to categorise: a working Catalan town where grand modernista mansions share streets with tyre shops, where thermal waters bubble up through Victorian ironwork, and where Saturday's market smells more convincingly of tomatoes than anything you'll find in Boqueria. The 17,000 residents have seen off property speculators, resisted theme-park tourism, and still manage to keep a lid on their secret.

The Water That Built a Town

Hot springs have a habit of attracting the wrong sort of attention. In La Garriga's case, it was Barcelona's 19th-century industrialists who arrived, pockets bulging with textile money, ready to build summer houses that would make their city neighbours jealous. They commissioned architects to outdo each other along what became the Passeig de l'Avinguda – a boulevard that feels like a Catalan answer to Cheltenham's Promenade, only with more palm trees and better coffee.

The thermal legacy survives in three public spas and a handful of private ones. Blancafort, the most accessible, lets day visitors soak for two hours for €32. The water emerges at 58°C, rich in sodium and sulphates, and tastes frankly disgusting. Local grandparents swear by it for arthritis. British visitors tend to emerge pink, relaxed and slightly incredulous that they've stumbled across something this good within commuting distance of Barcelona.

Walking the modernista route requires patience rather than a map. Start at Can Draper, its facade a riot of green ceramics and wrought-iron roses, then drift north past houses that variously resemble French châteaux, Venetian palazzos and something you might find in a particularly feverish Tim Burton film. Many remain private residences – their owners presumably tired of photographers – so discretion matters. The free izi.TRAVEL audio guide fills in gaps that guidebooks miss, including which architect died bankrupt and which industrialist kept a bear in his garden.

Beyond the Boulevards

The old centre shrinks everything down to human scale. Carrer de l'Església narrows until neighbours can shake hands across balconies. At the top sits the church of Sant Esteve, its Romanesque bones buried under centuries of renovations, though the bell tower still helps newcomers navigate. Behind it, tiny plaças contain benches where men in flat caps argue about football and women peel vegetables into plastic bags.

Can Noguera park provides shade when the summer heat becomes oppressive. Originally laid out as a modernista garden, it keeps its original fountains and pergolas, though the playground equipment has been updated since the Count of Noguera's children needed entertaining. The municipal museum occupies his former mansion, three floors that race through Iberian pottery, Roman coins, and the moment when thermal tourism transformed everything. Entry costs €5 and includes a bottle of thermal water that you'll probably pour into the nearest plant pot.

Saturday morning transforms the town. The market spreads across Plaça de l'Església from 7 am, stallholders shouting in Catalan that would make a Barcelona language teacher wince. This is where La Garriga's multiple personalities collide: elderly ladies in black inspect beans with forensic intensity while thirty-something commuters from Barcelona stock up on properly ripe avocados. Try the coca de recapte – a sort of Catalan pizza topped with roasted aubergines and red peppers – then buy honey from Vallès beekeepers who'll explain exactly which flowers their bees visited.

Walking Off the Train

The Montseny massif starts where the streets end. La Garriga serves as a gateway rather than a base camp, offering walks that won't require oxygen tanks. The Font de Ferro path loops five kilometres through holm oak and pine, past iron-rich springs that stain rocks rust-red. Spring brings wild asparagus and orchids; autumn means mushrooms and chestnuts. Serious hikers can link up with GR-5 for multi-day routes, but most visitors are happy with circuits that return them in time for lunch.

Cyclists appreciate the rolling terrain that never quite decides whether it's flat or hilly. Local clubs use the C-17 service road for training loops, though British legs might prefer the gentler route towards Figaró, where vineyards replace industry and the only traffic is a tractor carrying grapes to cooperative cellars. Bike hire shops are non-existent – bring your own or rent in Barcelona and take it on the train.

Winter changes the equation. Thermal waters feel more appealing when temperatures drop, but mountain winds whistle through the Passeig's plane trees. Some modernista houses reveal their true state: paint peels, gardens run wild, and you understand why period dramas film here when they need 'abandoned grandeur'. The spas heat up accordingly, though Sunday closures remain non-negotiable – plan around them or face a very quiet day.

Eating Without the Hype

Restaurant choices reflect resident tastes rather than tourist expectations. Can Muns, tucked behind the market, serves botifarra de Vic with white beans that would make a French cassoulet feel inadequate. Their lunch menu costs €14 and includes wine that hasn't travelled far. For something lighter, Forn Boix bakes bread with thermal water – it keeps longer, tastes faintly mineral, and makes superior sandwiches for train journeys back to Barcelona.

Evening dining starts late, Catalan-style, but Blancafort's spa restaurant accommodates British stomachs with English menus and tables from 7.30 pm. The fixed-price dinner (€22) might feature rabbit with prunes or salt cod with spinach, properly cooked without the tourist-board fuss. Book ahead – locals treat it as their canteen and weekend tables disappear fast.

The last train to Barcelona leaves at 10.36 pm. Most visitors make it, clutching bags of honey and thermal soap, already planning return visits. Some don't, discovering that La Garriga's hotels charge half Barcelona prices and serve coffee that actually tastes of beans rather than burnt cardboard. Either way, the town keeps its secret: proximity to one of Europe's great cities without the attendant madness. Just don't expect the sea – that's twenty-five kilometres away, and frankly, who needs sand when you have hot springs?