Jijona

The smell hits before the town comes into view. Roasting almonds drift through the car vents at kilometre 25 of the CV-800, a sweet, almost boozy cloud that makes passengers ask “is someone baking?” Jijona—Xixona on the green road signs—sits 25 km inland from Alicante airport, but the scent alone places you in the heart of Spain’s turrón belt. Forget the seaside; this is mountains, almond terraces and factories that never really stop, even when the last Christmas parcel has left the depot.

A working town that happens to make pudding

Guidebooks sometimes call Jijona a “sleepy mountain village”. That misses the noise of steel mixers folding honey into egg white at 7 a.m., or the queue of lorries waiting to unload almonds still warm from the orchard. Five thousand people live here year-round, and most are connected—literally, by family or invoice—to the sweet trade. The Museo del Turrón, lodged in a 1900s brick factory on the south edge, tells the story with blunt honesty: buckets, copper pans, a 1950s mechanical cutter that could slice off a finger faster than you can say “hard nougat”. Tours run hourly in English if you phone the morning before; mid-week you’ll share the room with three Belgian cyclists and someone’s grandmother who remembers shelling almonds for pocket money. Entry is €4 and ends with a paper cup of soft turrón that tastes like Christmas pudding concentrate—no brandy needed.

The historic centre above the factory district is neither postcard-pretty nor derelict. Streets are steep, pavements narrow, and house paint comes in fifty shades of “whatever was on offer at the ferretería”. Yet the irregularity is refreshing after the manicured seafronts of Benidorm. Plaza de la Iglesia delivers the obligatory baroque façade—Iglesia de la Asunción, 18th-century, open 10-12 except when the priest is sick—and a bar that serves coffee strong enough to power a small scooter. Sit outside long enough and someone will offer directions to the castle, adding the warning: “Veinte minutos, pero picando arriba”.

Uphill for views, downhill for calories

The climb to the ruined castillo is indeed twenty minutes of calf-burning cobbles, but the track is shaded by stone pines and the summit gives a 270-degree platform over almond groves and the distant flash of the Med. Pack a sandwich; there are no gift shops, no ice-cream van, only a crumbling watch-tower and benches carved with teenage initials. In February the slopes below burst into bridal white—almond blossom season—while October smells like marzipan on steroids as the factories roast the new crop. Both months are prime, and both avoid the August furnace when asphalt softens and even the lizards look tired.

Walkers with a hire car can continue north along the Peña Roja ridge. The full loop is 12 km, starting between fields of abandoned terraces once irrigated by Moorish channels. Markers are sporadic—download the Wikiloc file while you still have 4G. Spring brings purple thyme underfoot; after rain the clay sticks to boots like wet biscuit. Summer attempts require 2 litres of water per person and a dawn start; the regional ambulance is 35 minutes away and they charge if you’ve been idiotic.

How to eat your bodyweight in almonds

Lunch choices divide neatly: grandmother cooking or factory canteen. Casa Teresa on Calle Major keeps the wood-fired clay pot for arroz con conejo y caracoles (rabbit-and-snail rice) and will sell you a half portion if you ask before 1 p.m. Expect bones, shells, and a bill under €14 with house wine. At the other end, the turrón producer José Gómez runs a glass-walled cafeteria opposite its loading bays; the menu del día costs €12 and ends with turrón ice-cream that tastes like frozen Christmas pudding. British palates usually prefer the soft Jijona variety—almond fudge laced with honey—over the Alicante style that could double as building material. Buy it at the on-site shop: 200 g bar €3.80, half airport price and fresh enough to bend, not shatter.

If you need a break from sweetness, walk two streets to the cooperativa oil mill (open Tuesday and Thursday). They’ll pour a thimble of new-season arbequina so green it makes your throat fizz; bring an empty water bottle and they’ll fill half a litre for €6.

When the coaches leave

Day-trippers on Costa Blanca excursions arrive at 11 a.m., shuffle through the museum, snap a selfie holding a two-kilo turrón bar, and depart before siesta. By 2 p.m. the town exhales. Shops pull down metal shutters, the smell of almonds lingers over empty streets, and the only sound is the click-click of sprinklers keeping municipal geraniums alive. Use the lull to wander properly: peek into the tiled foyer of the old cinema, now a seniors’ club, or follow the signpost to the 1930s public wash-house where stone basins still carry a faint scent of soap. Everything reopens after 5, but nothing opens on Sunday except the bakery opposite the church—handy if your flight is delayed and you need emergency churros.

Practicalities weave in easily. Drivers should top up fuel before leaving the A-7; the last petrol station is 15 km away and closes Saturdays at 2. Cash is king—many family shops treat foreign cards like exotic artefacts. English is understood at the museum and at Casa Teresa (they’ve had forty years of coach parties), but the oil mill operates in rapid-fire Valencian and expressive gestures. If the almond blossom festival coincides with your half-term, book accommodation early: the town’s three small hotels fill with Spanish pensioners on a sweet-tooth pilgrimage, and double rooms jump from €55 to €90.

Worth it?

Jijona won’t give you a fairy-tale plaza or sea-spray selfies. It offers instead the rare sight of a place that still makes the thing it’s famous for, amid the orchards that supply it, under a mountain that smells of honey every autumn afternoon. Come for the turrón if you must, but stay for the lunchtime rice, the blossom walk, and the brief, humbling realisation that somewhere in Spain Christmas pudding is still stirred by hand while the rest of us are still on the beach.