Collserola

Barcelona is a pressure cooker. It’s a beautiful, sweat-soaked, garlic-scented pressure cooker trapped between the Mediterranean and a massive wall of green granite and pine. That wall is the Serra de Collserola. If you’ve spent more than forty-eight hours dodging selfie sticks on La Rambla or breathing in the diesel fumes of the Eixample, you need this place. It’s not a park in the way London or Paris has parks; it’s a mountain range that happens to be the city’s backyard, and it’s where the real Barcelona goes to breathe.

Getting there is half the trip. You hop on the FGC train, head toward the hills, and board the Funicular de Vallvidrera. As the car tilts and drags you up the incline, the air changes. The heavy, salt-thick humidity of the coast thins out. It starts to smell like rosemary, damp earth, and Aleppo pine. By the time you step out at Vallvidrera Superior, you’re in a different world. This is the Sarrià-Sant Gervasi heights, where the city’s noise is replaced by the rhythmic clicking of bicycle gears and the occasional rustle of something heavy in the underbrush.

The main artery here is the Carretera de les Aigües. It’s a flat, dusty path that snakes along the ridge, originally built for water pipes but now claimed by runners and cyclists in neon spandex. Is it crowded on a Sunday? Absolutely. It’s a goddamn zoo of strollers and mountain bikes. But go on a Tuesday morning, or late on a Thursday afternoon when the sun is dipping toward the Llobregat valley, and it’s transcendent. From here, the Sagrada Familia looks like a tiny, intricate sandcastle, and the Agbar Tower is just a glass thumb sticking out of the urban sprawl. You realize just how small the city actually is when you’re looking down on it from the high ridges of the mountain.

Then there are the locals. I’m not talking about the guys in the expensive hiking gear. I’m talking about the 'porcs senglars'—the wild boars. They are the unofficial mascots of Collserola, and they don’t give a damn about your picnic. They’re scruffy, indifferent, and occasionally aggressive if they think you’re hiding a sandwich. Seeing a family of boars cross a trail just a few miles from a Michelin-starred restaurant is the kind of cognitive dissonance that makes Barcelona great. It’s a reminder that despite the tourism boards and the gentrification, the wild is still waiting right at the edge of the metro line.

If you’re looking for the best hiking in Barcelona, you dive off the main paths. Follow the signs for the Font de la Budellera or head toward the Baixador de Vallvidrera. The trails get steeper, the canopy gets thicker, and the tourists disappear entirely. You’ll find old stone masias—farmhouses—tucked into the folds of the hills. Some of them still serve food: charred calçots in the winter, grilled lamb with allioli that will melt your soul, and cheap red wine served in a porrón. This is the honest, unadorned heart of Catalonia.

Collserola isn't perfect. The signage can be cryptic, the dust will ruin your white sneakers, and the Torre de Collserola—Norman Foster’s giant communications needle—is a constant, looming reminder of the modern world. But it’s essential. It’s the place that keeps the city sane. You come here to sweat, to see the horizon, and to remember that there’s more to life than tapas and Gaudí. It’s the escape valve every traveler needs.