Sant Feliu de Codines

The church bells strike seven, and the only other sound is a tractor reversing behind the bakery. From Plaça de l'Ajuntament you can see straight down Carrer Major to pine-clad hills that rise like a wall behind the last stone houses. At 480 m above sea-level, Sant Feliu de Codines sits just high enough for the air to feel rinsed, yet only 35 km from Barcelona's airport runway. That combination—clean lungs, city proximity—explains why half the terrace tables are open laptops rather than guidebooks.

Morning light on calçots and stone

Market days are Monday and Friday. Stallholders roll up with white-fleshed onions the size of cricket bats, still dusted with black volcanic soil from the coastal plain. Buy a kilo and the vendor will throw in a paper sleeve of romesco recipe: roast, wrap in newspaper, dip in sauce, devour. The ritual feels centuries old, yet the credit-card reader beeps like any London deli. Prices hover at €3 a bunch, cheaper than the metro ride to Barcelona's Boqueria.

Behind the stalls, the parish church of Sant Feliu watches over proceedings. Its Romanesque bones date to the 11th century, though later coats of plaster and Baroque paint hide most of the original stone. Step inside and the temperature drops five degrees; the smell is candle-wax and old timber rather than incense. No one charges entry, and the guard at the door is usually a retired local who simply nods, too polite to ask for silence when phones ping.

Tracks that start where the pavement ends

Leave the square by Carrer de la Rectoria and within four minutes the tarmac turns into a dirt track signed "Masía Codina – 2 km". The path climbs gently between dry-stone walls knitted with wild fennel; every turn reveals another farmhouse roof of cracked Roman tiles. Most properties still function: dogs bark, a quad bike delivers feed sacks, laundry snaps on a line. This is not a museum trail—permission is assumed until a hand-painted "Privat" sends you left at an olive grove.

The network is larger than the tourist office map suggests. A figure-of-eight loop can link Masía Codina, Mirambell and Jaumandreu in under two hours, returning via the shady canal known as Rec de la Llaura. Total ascent is 180 m, enough to raise a sweat but manageable in trainers. Mid-week you might meet one Nordic-walking couple from Terrassa; at weekends local families clog the lower paths, so start before ten or after five when the sun drops behind the ridge and the temperature falls to a civilised 24 °C.

Lunch at siesta o'clock

Cafés shut their kitchens at 15:30 sharp. Arrive at 15:35 and you will be offered crisps and a lukewarm Estrella—no exceptions. The trick is to eat early, Catalan style. Bar Restaurant Cal Serra, two doors from the pharmacy, serves a three-course menú del dia for €14. Expect grilled lamb chops (xai) with hand-cut chips, followed by crema catalana blistered under a hot iron. House cava is €2.90 a glass, cheaper than the bottled water in most beach resorts.

Vegetarians survive on coca de recapte, a rectangular flatbread topped with roasted aubergine and red pepper. It arrives oily, salty, cold—perfect with a dab of spicy romesco. Order it to take away and the barman will wrap the slice in wax paper so you can eat on the low wall outside, watching grandmothers swap gossip in rapid-fire Catalan.

Afternoon altitudes and evening trains

The serious mountains lie north in the Montseny massif. Turó de l'Home, the 1,706 m summit famous from Barcelona postcards, is 18 km away by road but a world apart in climate. If you fancy a bigger walk, drive to the pass of Santa Fe (30 min) and follow the ridge path: 600 m of ascent, black redstarts flitting between the pines, views to the Pyrenees on crisp days. Snow can linger here until April; in July the same trail is furnace-hot by eleven, so carry more water than you think sensible.

Back in the village, the single cash machine beside the town hall runs dry on Saturday night. Cards work in the supermarket and the pharmacy, but the bakery and the Saturday vermut stall prefer coins. Bring a tenner and you'll eat like royalty; bring only plastic and you will be hunting for a working ATM in the next village, Aiguafreda, 4 km down a lane barely wider than a Tesco delivery van.

Why the evenings feel longer

By 19:00 the sun slips behind the ridge and terracotta roofs glow amber. Office commuters from Barcelona—those who traded flats in Gràcia for semi-detached houses here—appear with dogs and children. The baker wheels out a portable oven and sells coques warm from the tray; teenagers queue for €1 slices while parents nurse vermouth on ice. Conversation is mostly Catalan, though a polite "Bon dia" will switch instantly to Spanish, sometimes English if your accent gives you away.

The last direct train to Barcelona leaves at 22:18. If you miss it, the night bus departs from outside the ajuntament at 23:05, arriving Plaça de Catalunya just after midnight. A taxi to the airport costs €70 pre-booked; shared rides via the local WhatsApp group come in at €25 per seat but require functional Spanish and patience for detours via Granollers.

A place that keeps its own beat

Sant Feliu de Codines will never feature on a "Top Ten Catalan Hideaways" list, and locals would like to keep it that way. There is no beach, no Gaudí selfie-spot, no souvenir fridge-magnet stand. What exists is a working village with enough altitude to breathe, enough paths to keep walkers busy for a week, and enough trains to let you dip into Barcelona's galleries before the evening cool drifts down from the pines. Come for three nights and you might extend to five; just remember to order lunch before three, carry cash, and resist telling everyone back home.