Busot

The bells of San Juan Bautista strike eleven as a coachload of Brits files back down the hill, having ticked off the Canelobre Caves and missed the village entirely. Within minutes the car-park empties, swifts replace tourists in the sky, and Busot reverts to its default setting: a white-cube settlement glued to a limestone ridge, 19 km inland from Alicante airport yet centuries away from the seafront karaoke bars.

A Ridge-Top Settlement That Never Needed the Sea

Busot hangs at 275 m above the glittering Mediterranean, close enough to watch the evening ferries leave Alicante’s port but far enough up to catch the mountain breeze. That altitude made sense in the thirteenth century, when lookout towers mattered more than beach towels; today it simply means the air smells of rosemary and damp stone rather than suncream. The village climbs one main street, Calle Mayor, so steep that local cars have bumper scars like braille. Park on the ring-road where the CV-820 bends past the cemetery—spaces are free, shaded by pines, and you avoid the one-way lattice that reduces grown drivers to tears.

From the guard-rail you can trace the entire Alacantí plain: plastic-greenhouses glinting toward Elche, the TRAM line threading the coast, and, on very clear April mornings, the hazy outline of Ibiza. Turn round and the limestone wall of the Sierra del Maigmó blocks the horizon; by 4 p.m. in midsummer it throws a shadow over the village like a giant sundial, dropping the temperature a good four degrees. That shadow is Busot’s most reliable public service.

What the Day-Trippers Miss

Most visitors sprint up the castle path for the selfie, then sprint down again. Stay ten minutes longer and you’ll notice the details that rarely make TripAdvisor: the 1930s ceramic street signs hand-painted in cobalt blue, the brass mail slot shaped like a fish on No. 23 Calle Iglesia, the way house martins stitch the air between telephone wires. The castle itself—really a fragment of Moorish wall and a 1950s restoration job—won’t win any heritage awards, but the 10-minute scramble over crumbling marl is worth it for the 360-degree payoff: Alicante’s skyline on one side, the Maigmó’s pine-dark shoulders on the other.

Back in the centre the eighteenth-century church of San Juan Bautista opens only for mass and Saturday-evening concerts. Push the heavy door anyway; inside, the air smells of beeswax and the floor lists gently downhill, the whole building settling into the rock like a ship taking on water. Retablos gilded with cherubs and tortured saints glow in the half-light, a Baroque surprise in a village that from the outside looks almost monastic.

Limestone, Almonds and the Smell of Rain

Busot’s hinterland is a geological layer-cake: Triassic marls at the bottom, Jurassic limestone on top, and a topping of red soil that keeps the almond trees happy. Between late January and mid-March the slopes explode into blossom so delicate it seems almost careless; farmers still harvest by shaking the branches and let the wind do the sorting. Walk the signed Ruta de los Almendros (6 km, 2 hrs, way-marked from the sports ground) early enough and you’ll share the track only with unleashed dogs and the occasional mountain biker who has taken a wrong turn.

Serious walkers head for the Maigmó itself, a 1,296 m stump that looks modest until you start climbing. The PR-CV 56 sets off from the Canelobre car-park, switch-backing through pine and rosemary before a final kilometre of ankle-turning scree. Allow three hours up, two down, carry two litres of water per person May–October, and don’t trust the shady pockets—temperatures on the north face can still nudge 30 °C before noon. The summit gives you the whole Costa Blanca laid out like an Ordnance Survey map: from Benidorm’s skyscraper toy-town in the south to the whale-back ridge of the Peñón de Ifach in the east.

Food That Doesn’t Photograph Well

Busot is not a tapas-trail kind of place. Mid-week you’ll find one bar open, maybe two, and the menus are chalked in Valencian without subtitles. Order a cerveza and you’ll get a saucer of olives pickled in fennel; order a cortado and the waitress will ask which farm you belong to. Come Friday lunchtime things perk up: Casa César fires up the deep-fryer for croquetas that taste of jamón ibérico and béchamel theology, while Bar Central serves a three-course menu del día for €14 that finishes with shot-glass of chilled Moscatel—think liquid apricot rather than sticky sherry.

If you’re self-catering, the SPAR on Calle Alicante stocks local almonds and vacuum-packed sausages; add a crusty baguette from Panadería Álvarez (opens 7 a.m., sold out by 11) and you have a ridge-top picnic that costs less than a Heathrow coffee. Sunday lunchtime is tricky—everyone is at their mother’s—so either book at Jouve Sully (grilled chicken and chips explicitly offered) or plan to drive down to El Campello for the harbour paella joints.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

March–April is the sweet spot: blossom on the trees, 20 °C at midday, orchids splodging the verges violet, and only the resident Brits here for the bowls tournament. May gets hot but the nights stay cool; June ushers in the first coach parties and the village pharmacy runs low on Factor 50. July–August are furnace months—fine if you want the fiestas (Moros y Cristianos mid-August, ear-plugs recommended) but the castle path radiates heat like a pizza oven and even the dogs siesta.

Autumn brings mushroom hunters and climbing groups; the light softens, the sea turns a deeper cobalt, and the almonds are gathered in hessian sacks. Winter is quiet, occasionally frosty, and the Canelobre Caves close on Mondays—double-check Spanish bank holidays or you’ll find the gates padlocked.

Getting Here Without the Drama

Alicante-Elche airport has direct flights from 20-plus UK cities; flight time is two-and-a-half to three hours depending on how hard the jet-stream is blowing. Pre-book a small car—Goldcar and Centauro have desks in the terminal—and head north on the A-70. Ignore the sat-nav lady when she tries to send you up the AP-7 toll road; the CV-820 coast road is slower but prettier, and you’ll need your wits about you once the gradient kicks in. No car? The C-6 airport bus connects to Alicante TRAM station; continue on Line 1 to El Campello and phone Radio Taxi Campello (+34 965 630 033) for the final 12 km uphill—about €20 and worth every cent if you’ve got walking boots rather than flip-flops.

Leave the caves for last or for another day; they close at 5 p.m. in winter, 6:30 p.m. in summer, and tour buses from Benidorm swamp the car-park from 11 a.m. onward. Instead, aim for 9:30 mass on Sunday, slip out after the gospel, and you’ll have the castle breeze to yourself while the congregation argues about the offside rule over coffee and churros.

Busot will never shout for attention. It offers instead a lesson in proportion: a handful of streets, a ruined fortress, a church that leans with the slope, and a view big enough to remind you that the Costa Blanca still has edges the brochures haven’t trimmed. Come for an hour, stay for lunch, and you may find the coast looks a touch too loud when you drive back down the hill.