Funiculars Are Real, God’s Timing Isn’t

It was time to get out of Barcelona and explore something other than art galleries and old buildings—well, okay, there were still going to be some old buildings, just maybe a tad less art. We’d decided to head out to Montserrat, about an hour by train from Plaça d’Espanya. I’d done some research on ways to get there: guided coach tours with winery stops on the way back, guides that accompany you on the train, or the DIY option. Not wanting to be stuck to a group schedule—and not wanting to pay through the nose for a private guide—we went with DIY.

A metro ride got us to Plaça d’Espanya, only to find we’d missed the regional train by about half an hour. We bought tickets from the vending machine and escaped the heat of the metro system for the heat above ground. Last time I was here the fountains were in full flow, but due to the drought, they’re now dry and turned off. A dry fountain certainly takes some of the magic out of it.

I made Peta take the escalators instead of the stairs as I tried to conserve some energy on my first planned no-nap day in quite a while—spoiler alert: I ended up napping on the train back later in the day. The climb to the top and back filled the time perfectly, and we returned just in time to catch the R5 train toward Montserrat—or at least most of the way. We’d bought a combo ticket that included the regional train to the base of the mountain, plus the cable car and rack railway up to the top. Or so we thought—more on that later.

The first part of the ride is underground and pretty forgettable, so I spent it catching up on blog posts. As we got closer to the mountains, we emerged above ground, with hills and rocky peaks coming into view.

We decided to take the cable car up first since it was the quicker way. Also: I’m terrified of cable cars, so figured ripping off the bandaid early might help with the anxiety. We boarded the little yellow cabin and began the haul up the mountain. Peta took a spot by the window. I stood in the middle, gripping the central pole for dear life, occasionally looking up to take in the view before quickly shifting my gaze back to the metal floor. Every time we passed a tower and the car rocked gently, I tightened my white-knuckle grip. I kept thinking, if the cable snaps and we fall, this pole sure isn’t going to save me—but hey, it felt reassuring.

Back on solid ground, Peta pointed out that the car’s max capacity of 30 people assumes each passenger weighs about 70kg—an optimistic assumption these days. Luckily, there were only about 20 of us inside. Now officially on the mountain, we paused to figure out what to do next. I hadn’t researched the sights in much detail. I knew we should take in the views, maybe ride the funicular, and definitely see the famous Black Madonna.

We stopped for a snack first, which turned into an early lunch while we waited in line for food. With some calories in the tank, we walked over to the entrance to the Black Madonna. But all the time slots were already gone for the day. Bit of a miss on my part for not booking in advance.

Plan B: church. We bought entry tickets and joined the unmoving queue at the front. “Sorry, the mass is running late. Come back at 12:30 or anything later is okay.” They’ve been running mass here for centuries and still can’t get the timing right. Classic.

We decided to head up the mountain instead and take the funicular—basically just because we could. I love funiculars. They’re a cool form of transport and completely missing from Australia. Peta and I agreed there’s nowhere in any of our cities steep enough, or with enough people willing to climb, to make one viable.

At the top, we started a short 10-minute hike to St. Joan’s Chapel. There was a nice breeze, but the sun was still brutal. The views, though—spectacular. The stone peaks of the mountains aren’t jagged but rounded, almost smoothed out by millennia of wind and rain. It gives the landscape a unique, otherworldly feel.

At the chapel, Peta wandered up to read a plaque while I stood in the shade. It’s a solitary little spot—peaceful, good for prayer I suppose. But honestly, after the hike to get up there, you’d want something important to pray about. On the way back, we spotted a rock climber scaling one of the rounded stone formations above us. We took a few selfies and then rode the funicular back down, this time on the opposite side of the mountain for a new view.

The ride down gave us an amazing look at the monastery—at least when we weren’t being jostled by a pushy family eager to get off. I just barely resisted the urge to trip their annoying kid. Back at church, we found another queue had formed. This time, apparently, the president of something-or-other had decided to stop by for a quick pray. That explained the sudden police presence—including some hot Spanish officers. Arrest me, sir.

With our legs not keen on doing much more in the heat, we parked ourselves under a shady tree with cold drinks—well, a lemon slushy in my case—and waited for the president to finish his divine appointment.

Eventually, we got inside the church. And… meh. It didn’t really wow me. A bit too dark and moody. I wanted more bling for the effort it took to get there. I zoomed in on the Black Madonna statue from below—close enough. The statue has a black face and a white body, which left me wondering if this would be considered controversial in 2025. Wasn’t blackface cancelled?

We popped into the candle room for a final stop. The wave of heat from all the candles hit us immediately. That marked the end of our religious experience for the day. With a tight timeline to get me back to Barcelona in time for my evening flight, we made our way to the rack railway platform.

We walked over to the rack railway platform, only to be told bluntly by a staff member that our combo ticket didn’t actually include it—despite what our ticket had to say. Our protests were shut down fast with a very sharp “That escalated quickly” tone. Fine. We gave up and walked back to the cable car, which thankfully did accept our ticket. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be getting back in that wobbly yellow box again, but gravity would help us this time.

The ride down felt way faster than the trip up. Maybe it was gravity, or maybe I was just eager to be done. I clung to the same pole and avoided looking out the window. A few minutes later we were back on solid ground and transferring to the train home.

Maybe I should’ve planned it all a bit better, but even with the missed reservations and ticket confusion, I really enjoyed visiting Montserrat. The views from the mountain, the monastery perched in the cliffs, and the rocky landscape made it worth the effort. As a train geek, I would’ve liked to ride the rack railway, but the funicular scratched that itch nicely.

I dozed off on the way back to the city and woke just before Barcelona. Peta and I said our goodbyes on the metro—she went shopping, and I headed to grab my bag and make my way to the airport.

I’m glad I gave Barcelona another go on this trip. I’m still Team Madrid, but I connected with the city more this time around. Next time, I’ll make the gay pilgrimage down to Sitges. Anyone up for that? But for now—farewell, Barcelona.Read more