Vera

The weekly market spreads across Plaza de Toros every Saturday until the sun climbs over the 16th-century church tower. By nine o’clock you can buy a three-euro espresso machine, a hand-woven rug from North Africa and a kilo of dates that were hanging in a nearby greenhouse two days earlier. Nothing about the scene hints that, eight kilometres away, several thousand northern Europeans are breakfasting in the nude.

Two towns, one council

Vera is two settlements stitched together by a dusty road and a shared mayor. The original hill town sits 95 m above sea level, far enough inland to escape the concrete breeze-blocks that creep along the coast. Whitewashed houses lean over lanes barely wide enough for a donkey, and the Saturday-meaning parking Gestapo slap tickets on any UK-plated hatchback that noses past the ayuntamiento. Drive eight minutes east – past lemon warehouses and a clutch of golf courses – and you reach Vera Playa, a purpose-built strip of low-rise apartments, naturist hotels and beach bars where clothing is optional and sunburnt Britons compare mortgage rates over cañas.

The inland pueblo keeps Andalucian hours. Shops reopen at 17:30 after the siesta hush, and by 23:00 even the dogs have clocked off. Vera Playa, meanwhile, runs on German time: breakfast at 08:00, beach by 09:00, early-bird pint at 16:00. Neither side apologises for the split personality; locals simply ask which Vera you mean before giving directions.

Sea, sand and the dress code

Playa de Vera stretches six kilometres from the fishing port of Garrucha to the wilder dunes of Playazo. The sand is fine, golden and, in July-August, hot enough to scorch bare feet before you reach the shore. Blue flags flutter most years, though seaweed drifts in after easterlies and the odd jellyfish closes the shallows for an afternoon. The naturist zone begins at kilometre 3 and runs for two kilometres; signs are discreet, but once umbrellas thin out and volleyball games require no kit, you know you’ve arrived. Textiles wander through without comment – just don’t gawp through a telephoto lens.

Behind the beach, a concrete promenade hosts chiringuitos that grill sardines over olive-wood fires. A plate of six, served with lemon and floppy chips, costs €8–€10; beer is another €2. Card machines remain exotic, so bring coins. The serious nudists pack cool-boxes and leave only footprints, but most Britons rent a €7 sun-lounger and argue over Factor 30.

Up in the hill town

Historic Vera rewards early risers. The Iglesia de la Encarnación looms like a fortress because it once was: watchtowers, slit windows and a bell tower you can climb on Fridays for panoramic views that reach the coast on clear days. Inside, 18th-century polychrome saints look down on whispering Spanish grandmothers and the occasional coach party from Murcia. Entry is free before 13:00; after that the caretaker locks up and disappears for coffee.

A two-minute shuffle along cobbles leads to the Convento de la Victoria, now a cultural centre with temporary exhibitions on local mining or, more riveting, the paprika industry that gave the world pimentón de la Vera. Buy a tin of the sweet version in the gift shop; customs at Stansted let it through, unlike the chorizo you’re eyeing beside it.

The Saturday street market is the social hub. Stalls selling flamenco dresses for toddlers sit next to buckets of olives the size of gobstoppers. Haggle politely – dropping the price by a euro wins smiles, not sulks – and arrive before 10:00 or you’ll circle the underground car park for half an hour. When the church clock strikes 14:00, metal shutters slam down and the town exhales until evening.

Eating: rabbit, snails and safer choices

Vera’s cuisine hedges its bets between campo and costa. Inland restaurants serve arroz con conejo y caracoles – rabbit and snail paella – hearty enough to fuel a ploughman. If the idea of picking shot from rice is unappealing, order migas: fried breadcrumbs laced with chorizo, grapes and, on Fridays, tiny shrimp. On the promenade, stick to espetos (skewered sardines) or a simple dorada baked in salt. Vegetarians survive on gazpacho-style red soup and grilled peppers; vegans should probably self-cater.

Pudding is less challenging. Date-and-almond cake appears in pastelerías from October, when the Palomares greenhouses harvest. Wine doughnuts, sticky with anis, taste like a Spanish take on hot cross buns and cost 80 c each. Pair with a cortado or, if the day is already sliding sideways, a carajillo (coffee laced with rum).

Walking, golf and avoiding August

Spring and autumn are the sweet spots. Temperatures hover around 22 °C, the naturist colonists haven’t yet swapped Blackpool for bare-all and hotel prices drop by a third. Several signed footpaths leave from the southern edge of town, winding through almond groves to the ruined hilltop watchtower of Las Paredes. The full circuit is 10 km; carry two litres of water even in April – the Levante wind sucks moisture faster than you notice.

Golfers choose from three 18-hole courses wedged between potato fields and beach apartments. Green fees average €55 midweek, €70 at weekends; buggy rental another €35. All three clubs have English-speaking pros who learnt their trade on the Costa del Sol and will happily sell you a new glove after your old one dries and cracks in the desert air.

August is a different story. The mercury can hit 40 °C, Spanish families pack the campsite pools and the nudist beach resembles Brighton on a bank holiday minus the swimwear. Accommodation prices spike 40 %; parking spaces evaporate. If you must come then, book an apartment with air-conditioning and accept that the sardine skewers will be served by frazzled waiters who’ve heard every British joke about portions.

Getting here, getting out

Almería airport is 45 minutes south by hire car; Murcia and Alicante add another half-hour but often undercut on fares. Buses link the airport to Vera town twice daily, then crawl on to the beach, but timetables assume you have nowhere urgent to be. A rental car is less stressful and lets you escape to the mountain villages of the Alpujarra on market-strike Saturdays.

Leave room in the suitcase. Alongside the paprika you’ll find thick-woven hammocks at the market, sold by a Murcian who swears they’re Colombian. A litre of local olive oil, decanted into a plastic bottle, survives hold luggage if wrapped inside a beach towel. Just remember: if you fly back on a Saturday evening, every other Brit on the plane will smell of sardines and after-sun too.

Vera doesn’t need hyperbole. It offers a slice of inland Andalucia that still belongs to its residents, plus a coastline where northern Europeans barbecue breakfast in the buff. The two halves coexist without fuss, linked by a road you’ll soon know by heart. Bring change for parking, respect the dress code – or lack of it – and arrive before the church bell strikes one. After that, the town sleeps, the beach bakes and only the market traders stay awake to count their euros.