Alicante

The lift to Santa Bárbara Castle rises 166 m through the rock of Mount Benacantil in 90 seconds flat, but the queue for that lift can steal forty minutes even with a pre-booked ticket. From the top you look down on two distinct Alicantes: the grid of honey-coloured apartment blocks and the sparkling marina, and, on the seaward side, a caramel strip of sand that fills with towels by ten each morning. One city works; the other holidays. The surprise is how easily they rub along.

A harbour that still earns its keep

Unlike resort towns where the port is a photo opportunity, Alicante’s harbour handles freight, ferries, fishing boats and the odd cruise liner. Walk the outer mole at 07:00 and you’ll see trawlers unloading boxes of squid while joggers pound past. The fish auction hall, a hangar-sized building behind the yacht club, sells to restaurateurs from as far as Madrid; visitors can watch from a glass mezzanine on weekday mornings if they don’t mind the 05:30 start. By 09:00 the same boats are hosing down decks and the promenade switches to tourist mode: day-trippers queue for Tabarca, the tiny fortified island 45 minutes away. Boats leave on the hour; return tickets are €19 in winter, €24 July–September. Snorkellers rate the island’s marine reserve, but the stone beach is sharp—pack rubber shoes or spend the afternoon wincing.

Back on the mainland, sand quality improves the further you travel from the harbour wall. Postiguet, the city-centre beach, is man-made and gets rammed in July; arrive after 11:00 and you’ll be squeezing between sound systems. Walk ten minutes east towards Albufereta and the crowd thins. Carry on to San Juan, eight kilometres of pale sand backed by low-rise villas, and you’ll find space for a rugby match even in August. The tram trundles here in 22 minutes; a TAM travel card drops the fare to €1.35, half the tourist price.

History you can walk into without a ticket

Alicante’s old quarter fits inside a rough triangle of stone. Start at the Town Hall steps: two bronze sculptures spell out the city’s name in Braille, a quiet nod to accessibility in a region where castle lifts break down. From here Calle Mayor climbs past delivery scooters and shaded doorways until the street narrows to shoulder width. The Concatedral de San Nicolás looks plain outside—Baroque restraint after the fireworks of Andalucía—but inside, a single sunbeam picks out the hollowed lectern where Mass has been read since 1662. Round the corner, the Basilica of Santa María charges no entry fee; drop a euro in the box and you can sit beneath a 15-metre Gothic rib vault while someone practises the organ.

The MARQ archaeology museum sits ten minutes away on Avenida Villajoyosa. Rainy-day refugees from Benidorm call it “the best fiver you’ll spend”—adult entry is actually €5.50, but the audio guide is free and the lighting would make the British Museum jealous. One gallery recreates an Iberian warrior’s hut; another lets you lift a replica Roman anchor. Children get to sniff amphorae: fish sauce, honey, burnt grain. It smells better than it sounds.

Rice, but not the one you’re expecting

Order “paella” in Alicante and the waiter will ask how many diners. Minimum two portions at €20 each, no exceptions. Locals skip the argument and choose arroz a banda instead: rice simmered in rock-fish stock, served minus shells or eyes. The colour is turmeric-yellow, the flavour gentle, closer to kedgeree than anything Valencian. Pair it with a cold glass of Verdejo and the bill stays under €25 a head.

For quicker bites, Calle de los Labradores runs parallel to the Explanada and hides a row of stand-up bars. Try a montadito de calamares—crisp squid rings in a mini baguette—washed down with beer poured from height to knock the gas out. Portions are modest, prices aren’t: €3.50 a sandwich, but you’ll pay the same on the harbourfront and eat surrounded by wheelie cases. If you need a British palate safety net, order patatas bravas “sin picante”; the kitchen will swap spicy sauce for garlicky alioli and nobody rolls their eyes.

When the city lets its hair down

June’s Hogueras de San Juan turns the centre into a tinderbox. Papier-mâché monuments three storeys high lampoon footballers and politicians; at midnight on 24 June they all burn, fire brigade on standby. The smell of gunpowder drifts for days, and accommodation prices spike 40%. British families who arrive expecting quiet nights end up wearing earplugs. Conversely, Semana Santa is low-key: hooded processions squeeze through medieval streets, drums echoing off stone. Crowds are respectful, bars stay open late, and hotel rates barely budge—worth knowing if you can only travel at Easter.

Getting about without the grief

Alicante–Elche airport is 11 km south-west. The C-6 bus costs €3.85 exact change and runs 24 hours; taxis hover inside arrivals quoting €25–30 but the metered fare is closer to €21 on weekdays. Once in town, the tram system is a bargain: buy a rechargeable TAM card at the airport stop and every journey within the city drops to €0.72. Trams glide north to San Juan or south to Coveta Fuma, a rocky cove good for snorkelling when the wind is light. Buses accept the same card; don’t bother with the tourist travel pass unless you’re planning four rides a day.

Sunday shutdown is real: supermarkets pull down shutters at 14:00, chemists rotate a single 24-hour window. Plan a picnic on Saturday or queue at the covered Central Market for jamón, olives and fruit that still carries field dust. The market closes 14:30 daily except Monday, so don’t bank on a Monday stroll.

The catch

Postiguet beach looks Caribbean on the council website; in February it’s a wind tunnel and the council tractors pile breakwaters of gravel to stop winter storms eating the promenade. Even in summer, the western end near the yacht club is shingle—walk east for sand or wear shoes. Castle access is free, but the lift queues reward early birds only; after 11:00 you’ll be sharing the ramparts with three coach parties and a drone operator. Finally, Alicante isn’t bargain Spain. A coffee on the Explanada costs €2.80, 40% more than Madrid, because the view is included in the price.

Still, the city delivers what plenty of coastal resorts lack: life beyond the visitor. Fishermen mend nets under graffiti-daubed cranes, students spill out of law faculty doors at 21:00, and the evening paseo is more about gossip than selfies. Stay three nights and you’ll learn the shortcut alleys; stay a week and the barman remembers your name—no small thing in a place that sees four million strangers a year.