Llinars del Vallès

The 07:38 Rodalies train from Barcelona pulls in and two dozen commuters stride across the platform straight into the bakery. By 07:45 the croissants are gone and the town smells of coffee and diesel. This is Llinars del Vallès: not a film set, not a highlight reel, just a functioning Catalan municipality that happens to sit 35 minutes inland from the airport.

At 200 m above sea-level the air is a shade cooler than on the coast, enough to lift the scent of wet grass from the wheat fields that still press against the last street lamps. The topography is gentle—this is the pre-coastal range rather than the Pyrenees—so evenings stay warm well into October and frost is a novelty rather than a fixture. British visitors tend to notice two things first: the place is spotlessly tidy, and almost everything is shut between 14:00 and 17:00.

What the centre actually looks like

Guidebooks sometimes promise an "historic quarter". In Llinars that amounts to three short streets and a church whose Romanesque bones are hidden beneath nineteenth-century stucco. Carrer Major is barely 200 m long; on it you’ll find a ironmonger that sells everything from olive nets to mouse traps, a pharmacy with a 1950s brass till, and Bar Plaza where the house wine arrives in a 125 ml bottle and costs €1.90. Architecture buffs will enjoy spotting the stone bond on the corner of Carrer de la Creu—ashlar blocks laid in the Catalan fashion, each the size of a shoe box—but no one will thank you for blocking the doorway with a tripod.

Outside those three lanes the town spreads into low-rise apartments, small industrial units and, on the western edge, detached houses with swimming pools that rarely get used before June. The overall effect is more Stevenage than Sóller: practical, orderly, resolutely unphotogenic. If you want geranium-draped balconies, carry on to the Cistercian abbey at Santa Maria de l’Estany twenty minutes up the C-35.

Walking without the crowds

Llinars does, however, have one underrated asset: footpaths that start where the pavement ends. From the church door it’s a five-minute stroll to the first way-marker of the Ruta de les Masies, a 7 km loop that threads through almond orchards and past three working farmhouses. The trail is flat, well sign-posted and perfectly doable in trainers. Spring brings poppies and the smell of fennel; autumn smells of damp earth and wood smoke. Add a second loop—follow the yellow-white dashes towards the tiny hamlet of Mogent—and you can stretch the walk to 14 km without ever seeing a souvenir shop.

Cyclists share the lanes with the occasional tractor. Road bikes work fine, but a gravel bike lets you drop onto the agricultural tracks that skirt the torrents (dry riverbeds most of the year). These green corridors attract bee-eaters in April and keep temperatures down when the inland thermometre nudges 35 °C in July. Bring water; bars outside town close on random weekdays.

Eating like it’s still 1998

There is no tasting menu, no foam, no sourdough. Instead you get three-course lunches that start at 13:30 sharp and cost €13–15 if you order the menú del día. Can Xic, opposite the sports pavilion, does a proper roast chicken with hand-cut chips and a bowl of garlicky aioli. Finish with crema catalana—more set than English custard, less burnt than French crème brûlée. Vegetarians do better at Cal Muns pizzeria on Carrer Major; the roasted aubergine pizza is substantial enough to share, and they’ll swap dairy for oat cheese if you ask in Spanish or Catalan (English menus exist, staff are patient).

The Monday morning market is the cheapest place to stock up on fruit. Stalls start packing away at 13:00; arrive before coffee time if you want ripe persimmons or a wedge of local goat’s cheese. Empanadillas—small pasties filled with tuna and peppers—make good car snacks if you’re heading onwards to Girona or the coast.

When to come, and when not to

May and late-September offer 23 °C afternoons, empty car parks and hotel doubles for €55. From mid-June to early September the population swells with city families who rent the apartment blocks near the swimming pool; expect full restaurants and loud poolside playlists that shut off at 23:00 exactly. August itself is half-deserted: bakeries close, the library posts a "Tornem aviat" notice and the only place still serving coffee is the service station on the bypass. Winter is mild—daytime 12–14 °C—but the surrounding fields turn the colour of cardboard and the mountains stay hidden under a lid of low cloud.

Practicalities without the brochure speak

Arriving without a car is straightforward but time-sensitive. Take the R2 Nord train from Barcelona Sants to Granollers (32 min, €3.60), then hop on the L1 bus for the final 10 min to Llinars. Taxis from Granollers cost about €18 if the bus has already stopped for siesta. Hire cars should be collected at the airport; leave the AP-7 at Cardedeu (junction 11) rather than battling through Barcelona’s ring road. Parking is free on Carrer Sant Ramon and every other residential street; blue-zone bays in the centre give you three hours before a €3 ticket.

Last trains back to Barcelona depart at 22:56; miss it and the overnight taxi fare climbs to €35–40. Accommodation ranges from the functional Hotel Montmeló (ten minutes’ drive, popular with F1 fans when Circuit de Catalunya races) to a handful of Airbnb flats inside town. None of the rural B&Bs marketed as "Llinars" are actually walkable after dinner—check Google Maps before booking.

The honest verdict

Llinars del Vallès will never compete with coastal whitewashed villages or mountain stone hamlets. What it offers is a slice of workaday Catalonia where the bakery opens at 06:00, the elderly still play cards under the plane trees and the church bells mark the hours without consulting a marketing department. Use it as a base for hikes in the Montseny biosphere reserve, a lunch stop between Barcelona and Girona, or simply a place to sleep cheaply while the rest of the Costa Brava inflates its prices. Come with modest expectations and you might leave wondering why guidebooks bother with superlatives at all.