Salinas

The salt pans of Salinas turn lunar-white each July. Water evaporates from the shallow clay basins in a matter of hours, leaving a crust that villagers scrape into wheelbarrows just as their grandparents did. No piped music, no interpretive centre, just the rasp of metal on clay and the smell of the Mediterranean carried on a breeze that has crossed 490 m of almond terraces.

What the village actually is

Salinas sits on the northern lip of the Alt Vinalopó basin, 49 km inland from Alicante airport. The A-31 motorway skirts it to the south, but the village itself is a grid of single-track streets where traffic moves at walking pace and parking is still free. Stone cottages are painted the colour of buttermilk; most have wooden doors bleached silver by more than 300 days of sun a year. At the centre, the 18th-century church tower acts as a weather vane for the whole valley—when clouds build behind it, locals head to the coast because rain is four hours away.

The permanent population hovers around 1,700, though that figure doubles from October to April when British homeowners arrive. Estate agents advertise “lock-up-and-leave” townhouses for €85,000–€120,000; the appeal is simple: village quiet within ten minutes of blue-flag beaches. Torrevieja’s high-rise strip is 8 km south-west, close enough for fish-and-chips yet far enough that you hear nothing at night except dogs and the occasional tractor.

Salt, birds and bad phone signal

The working salinas lie a five-minute walk east of the plaza. A rough track leads past abandoned threshing circles—white concrete discs where wheat was once trodden by mules—then drops to a series of rectangular ponds. Entry is free and unsigned; follow the tyre marks and stop at the chain-link gate. From February to August the ponds blush pink as halophyte algae bloom; flamingos sometimes touch down in April, though they’re outnumbered by stilts and avocets. Bring binoculars and something to sit on—there are no benches, no café, and only one patch of shade offered by a tamarisk tree that everyone photographs and nobody knows who planted.

The saltworks still produce small batches for gourmet suppliers. Workers will show you the crystallising pans if you ask politely in Spanish (morning only, before the sun hits the meridian). They’ll also tell you that mobile reception dies halfway across the site—download offline maps before you set out.

Walking without the crowds

Salinas is ringed by a necklace of low limestone ridges, none higher than 800 m, all criss-crossed by old mule tracks. The most straightforward route starts behind the cemetery on Calle San Roque: a stone-littered path climbs gently for 3 km to the ridge known as Loma de las Águilas. From the top you can see the Laguna Salada glinting like polished steel, and beyond it the apartment blocks of Orihuela Costa looking almost Mediterranean-blue. The circuit takes ninety minutes; take two litres of water in summer and start before 9 a.m.—shade is non-existent and the thermometer touches 36 °C by noon.

Longer hikes link to the neighbouring villages of Sax and Villena, each roughly 12 km away. The old bridleways are well-marked with yellow-and-white stripes, but carry a print-out: way-markers vanish where farmers have knocked down walls to widen tractor lanes. Winter is the comfortable season; January afternoons sit around 16 °C and the almond blossom appears in the first week of February, turning the slopes into a Pointillist canvas of white and pale pink.

Where to eat (and where to find Marmite)

Spanish menus del día are served in three bars around the plaza. Casa Tápias offers grilled pork, chips and a half-carafe of wine for €10; they’ll swap the wine for a can of Coca-Cola without comment, useful if you’re driving. For breakfast, the British-run Rendezvous bakes its own sliced white and stocks Marmite behind the counter—handy when the craving hits after a fortnight of tomatoes on toast. Evening trade is low-key; most kitchens close by 22:00. If you want nightlife, drive to Playa Flamenca and its line of Irish pubs: twenty minutes door to door, €12 in a taxi if you pre-book.

One local dish worth trying is arroz a banda, a dry saffron rice cooked in fish stock then served with alioli. It’s milder than paella valenciana and arrives without shells or bones, reassuring for children who balk at seafood eyes. Ask for it at Mesón Salinas on Avenida de la Constitución; they cook to order, so allow forty minutes.

When to come, when to stay away

April–May and late September–October give warm days (22–26 °C) and cool nights (12–15 °C) without the furnace blast of midsummer. Easter week brings processions that block the main street with incense and brass bands; book accommodation early if you want a room, or avoid entirely if you dislike crowds. August fiestas honour San Roque with outdoor discos that finish at 04:00; light sleepers should rent on the western edge of the village or accept that earplugs are essential.

Winter is reliable for sun—Christmas Day lunch is often taken on the patio—but be aware that rural Alicante can drop to 2 °C at night. Most village houses have no central heating; owners install plug-in radiators and charge extra for electricity. Check the small print before you commit to a January let.

Practicalities slipped in quietly

Alicante airport is 40 minutes by car; Murcia-Corvera is 35. Car hire desks are inside both terminals; pre-booking saves roughly 30 % on walk-up rates. There is no train to Salinas. Buses from Alicante run twice daily, except Sundays when the service is cancelled altogether. A single ticket costs €4.85 but the timetable is built for schoolchildren, not tourists—hire a car.

Fuel is cheaper at the supermarket pumps on the outskirts of Villena (exit 8 on the A-31) than on the coast. ATMs are in the plaza; they charge €1.50 for UK cards but dispense up to €300. Shops shut between 14:00 and 17:00; the small Supermercado Mas y Mas reopens until 20:30, handy for emergency milk. Sunday trading is limited to the Chinese bazaar opposite the town hall—wine, crisps, sun-cream, all at resort prices.

The honest verdict

Salinas delivers what the coast cannot: silence at night, parking outside your door, hills that turn gold at sunset. It also demands compromise. You will drive to the beach, to the chemist, to anywhere requiring choice. Evenings are hushed; if you want theatre, galleries or sushi, stay in Alicante. Come here for slow days, for salt crust on your trainers, for a village where the baker still remembers how you like your coffee after a fortnight. Tolerate the inconveniences and you’ll understand why half the Brits who “just came to look” never handed back the keys.