Garrucha

The harbour horn blasts at half past five and the day’s first auction is already winding down. Fork-lift trucks weave between crates of scarlet prawns while auctioneers rattle off prices in rapid-fire Spanish. A dozen tourists lean over the rail, cameras forgotten, watching money change hands faster than the fish can flap. This is Garrucha: a harbour first, a promenade second, and a beach resort only by accident.

A waterfront that still works

Most coastal towns on the Almería strip scrubbed away their working past decades ago. Garrucha never bothered. The fishing fleet still owns the middle of the harbour; the trawlers tie up between the two breakwaters and unload straight into the low white auction hall. If you want to see it, arrive before six, wear closed shoes (the floor is slick with melt-water), and keep clear of the yellow stripes marked "zona de vehículos". Photography is tolerated, flash is not.

Outside, the harbour road has been re-laid with local marble that stays cool even at midday. The new surface is level enough for a wheelchair or a toddler on a scooter, and it runs the full kilometre from the lighthouse to the castle. Benches are positioned every twenty metres; the marble ones on the western side catch the afternoon sun and fill with retired Britons comparing house prices back home.

Beyond the lighthouse the town beach begins – dark volcanic sand, coarse enough that it doesn’t stick to lotion-slick calves. Sun-loungers are €4 a day in high season, but bring a towel and you can still claim a free strip near the breakwater where the local kids practise bomb-dives. The water shelves gently and the breeze is usually offshore, so paddle-boarders get a free pass back to shore when they fall.

What lands on the plate

The red prawn (gambas rojas) is the harbour’s celebrity: translucent candy-striped shell, meat that tastes faintly of lobster rather than the North-Sea brown shrimp. Restaurants buy them at dawn and grill them at lunchtime with nothing more than rock salt and a wedge of lemon. A half-kilo portion (enough for two) hovers around €28; order bread to mop the juices and the waiter will bring a bib without being asked. If that feels reckless, a single-prawn tapa costs €3.50 at Bar Imperio on Plaza de las Viudas, and the barman will show you how to suck the head without splatter.

For the seafood-shy, the Friday market on the port car-park offers safer glory. A van near the entrance turns out churros the thickness of a broom handle, 60 cents each, handed over in a paper bag already blotting with oil. Further in, Moroccan-staffed stalls sell mint, coriander and ras el hanout for tagines, evidence that the harbour’s trade links face south-east as well as north. Arrive before ten; by eleven the car-park is grid-locked and the council attendants give up trying to charge.

When the fleet is in

Garrucha’s calendar still follows the boats. The third weekend of July belongs to the Virgen del Carmen: the statue is carried from the twentieth-century church down the marble prom, loaded on a trawler decked with carnations, and escorted three miles out while sirens wail and fireworks ricochet off the water. Visitors based up the hill in Mojácar pack the sea wall ten-deep; locals watch from their balconies, gin-and-tonics in hand.

October’s red-prawn festival is more edible and less pious. The town lays on tasting marquees on the fish-market quay; €12 buys three prawns, a glass of albarino and a commemorative apron you’ll never wear again. Hotels within 20 km sell out months ahead; if you miss a room, the last ALSA bus back to Mojácar leaves at 22:45 and accepts contactless payment.

Beyond the breakwater

The coast both sides of the harbour is walkable. Head south-east on the new boardwalk and you reach the nineteenth-century castle – really a squat hexagonal fort built to deter Berber pirates. Inside is a tiny maritime museum that opens Tuesday to Friday, 10–13:30, admission free but they appreciate a euro in the jar. The roof gives a drone’s-eye view of the loading cranes and, beyond them, the solar farms that glitter like inland lakes.

North-west, the promenade turns into a gravel track that continues four kilometres to Villaricos. The path skirts derelict salt pans where flamingos sometimes pause in April; carry water because the only bar is at the far end and it closes on Mondays. Cyclists can loop back inland through the tomato hothouses – a surreal landscape of plastic kilometres long, humming with bees imported from Murcia.

The practical bits

Almería airport is 90 minutes away by ALSA coach (€9 single, card friendly). Murcia-Corvera is slightly farther but often cheaper for UK flights; the onward drive is motorway all the way. A hire-car lets you reach the hill-town of Mojácar or the wilder beaches of Cabo de Gata, but in Garrucha itself everything is within a flat mile; a car is handy, not vital.

Parking is free on the eastern side of the harbour except August, when white-lined bays switch to €1 an hour. The trick is to arrive before 10 a.m. or after 7 p.m.; locals dine late and the evening exodus frees spaces. Blue-zone bays on the prom max out at two hours – enough for lunch but not for an afternoon sunbathe.

Winter Sundays are genuinely quiet: half the bars close, the market vanishes, and the beach feels like a private canteen for dog-walkers. It’s the best time to bag a sea-view table and watch clouds skid across the Sierra Cabrera, but check opening hours on Facebook first – Spaniards treat “cerrado por descanso” as a legitimate hobby.

Last orders

Garrucha will not deliver antique alleyways or bougainvillea-draped plazas. What it does deliver is the smell of diesel mixing with garlic, the sight of auctioneers chalking prices on a slate, and the taste of prawns that were swimming before you woke up. Stay for one meal and a walk, or base yourself here and commute to prettier neighbours. Either way, come hungry, bring cash for the market, and don’t wear white shirts at the harbour – the prawns splash further than you think.