El Ejido

The first thing that hits you is the glare. From the A-7 motorway it looks like a frozen tsunami—thousands of hectares of plastic sheeting stretching inland from the shore, throwing sunlight back at the windscreen. This is El Ejido, the greenhouse coast of Almería, where half of Europe’s tomatoes ripen under plastic while the Mediterranean glints politely in the background. Forget whitewashed Moorish fantasies; the town is a working laboratory of drip irrigation, Moroccan labour and 24-hour salad logistics. Yet between the irrigation channels lie five kilometres of surprisingly clean beach, a flamingo-dotted nature reserve and a marina that British motor-homers treat like a giant service station with sea views.

The View from the Polytunnel

Drive the inland road at dawn and you’ll share the carriageway with lorries labelled “Pimiento Holland” and “Tomate UK”. The fields they leave behind are measured in hectares, not allotments; each block is numbered like a military cemetery, the crop varieties stencilled on the plastic. Stop at the Casa del Hortelano shop on the old N-340 and you can buy the rejects—crooked cucumbers, cracked beef tomatoes—at 50 cents a kilo. The cashier will toss in a free recipe for salmorejo thickened with greenhouse bread, a dish invented to use what the export market won’t take.

The landscape is flat, windy and deliberately unromantic, but it keeps the town solvent. Average January temperature is 17 °C, so when Kent is under frost El Ejido is picking peppers. That climatic accident explains why 90,000 people live here and why the Saturday market (Calle Arquitecto Pérez de Arenaza, 9 am–2 pm) feels like a UN canteen—Senegalese tailors, Romanian electricians, Yorkshire couples arguing over a €3 terracotta casserole.

Where the Beach Breaks Free

Head south and the plastic stops abruptly at the Almerimar yacht wall. Built in the Seventies, the marina has 1,100 berths and the breezy functionality of a Portsmouth dry dock. British registrations outnumber Spanish ones in winter; live-aboards queue at the chandlery for Calor gas refills and compare diesel prices over €1.20 pints at the Clipper bar. Walk the breakwater at sunset and Africa floats on the horizon like a dark cut-out, while behind you the greenhouse lights click on in sequential orange, a low-budget aurora.

The beach east of the harbour is a 4 km sweep of fine sand cleaned daily by a tractor that rakes up seaweed and plastic ties in equal measure. No beach clubs blast reggaeton; instead, Spanish families park their chairs in neat rows facing the water, as if awaiting inspection. The sea shelves gently and the swell rarely tops half a metre—perfect for paddle-board beginners, though on levante days the wind can whip the surface into stinging spray. Check the harbour office flag: red means the rescue boat’s crew is still at lunch, so swim at your own risk.

Three kilometres farther lies Guardias Viejas, a crenellated castle built to deter Berber pirates. The fort is essentially a stone cube with a view, but the adjoining cove is the coast’s quietest spot; on weekdays you’ll share it with retired gardeners from Murcia and the occasional naturist behind a fishing boat. Bring water—there’s no bar, and the nearest loo is a five-minute drive back towards the tomato plants.

Flamingos between the Lettuce

Between the greenhouses and the sea, the Punta Entinas-Sabinar reserve interrupts the monoculture with 1,900 hectares of dunes, salt lagoon and knee-high juniper. Entry is free; park by the information hut (locked most Tuesdays) and follow the boardwalk that rattles in the wind. Winter brings 3,000 flamingos, avocets and the occasional osprey. The birds don’t care that the nearest lettuce pack-house is 300 m away; they feed on brine shrimp while forklift beeps provide industrial percussion. Allow ninety minutes for the full circuit—longer if you’ve brought binoculars and a flask. Summer walkers should budget a litre of water per person; shade is non-existent and the white sand reflects heat like a fan oven.

Cyclists can loop the reserve on a grit track that continues west to the village of Roquetas, 12 km of flat tailwind. Hire bikes at Almerimar Bike (€15 a day; they lend helmets reluctantly and never ask for a deposit). The same shop organises Friday morning road rides to the foothills of the Sierra de Gádor—1,000 m climbing, vineyards replacing plastic, views back to the glittering greenhouse sea.

Eating What the Trucks Leave Behind

Agricultural wealth hasn’t translated into Michelin stars—there’s one, La Costa, tucked inside a 1980s apartment block. The tasting menu (€65, book in English online) re-packages export veg into cylinders and foams; the courgette mille-feuille tastes like a greenhouse smells at 6 am. More honest is the food eaten by the workers. At Chiringuito El Tornado on Almerimar front, grilled gambas arrive split down the back so you can de-vein without getting shell under a fingernail. Chips are thick, oil is sunflower, and the waiter will bring ketchup without a lecture. Menu-del-día hunters should try Restaurante El Parador (no relation to the state-owned chain): three courses, wine and a printed English translation for €12. Wednesday is migas day—fried breadcrumbs riddled with chorizo and grapes. It’s stodge designed for men who’ve spent eight hours tying tomato vines; approach with respect and a half-litre of tap water.

Self-caterers do better. The Mercadona on Avenida de la Constitución stocks Cumberland-style sausages (labelled “salchichas inglesas”) and sells greenhouse peppers for €1.30 a kilo—roughly a third of Tesco’s price. Pair them with a €4 bottle of local syrah; the bottle will be light enough to post home as proof that Almería does more than salad.

When to Come, When to Leave

April and late-October offer 24 °C days without the fertilizer tang that hangs in July. August is brutal: thermometers read 36 °C, but inside the plastic it’s 50 °C and the smell of nutrient solution drifts across the coastal road like sour vegetable soup. Accommodation is functional rather than charming—expect €70 for a two-star room facing the marina, €95 if you want a sea view and a kettle. Most British visitors treat the town as a staging post: fill the tank (diesel is usually 8 c cheaper than on the motorway), empty the loo, and push on to Mojácar or the Cabo de Gata. Stay longer only if you’re curious about how December strawberries reach Waitrose, or if you’ve always fancied a beach where the only noise is a distant tractor zipping up another polythene skin.

Leave before the miracle of year-round tomatoes starts to feel normal; otherwise you’ll never look at a supermarket salad aisle in quite the same way again.