Alcalà de Xivert

The morning bus from Valencia wheezes to a stop at 155 metres above sea level, and the first thing that hits you is the smell of wood smoke mixing with almond blossom. This is Alcalà de Xivert, an agricultural town that happens to own nine kilometres of Mediterranean coastline, yet still closes its shops for lunch. British visitors expecting a purpose-built resort will be either disappointed or delighted, depending on their tolerance for Spanish clocks.

Inland DNA, Coastal Wallet

The old town clusters around the Castell d'Alcalà, a Templar fortress that has watched over these hills since the 13th century. Its stone walls are intact enough to scramble along, though the access road is single-track with vertiginous drops—think Hardknott Pass in Cumbria but with olive groves instead of heather. From the battlements you can see the sea glinting eight kilometres away, a view that explains why this was once frontier country between Christian Aragon and the Moorish south.

Down in the grid of narrow streets, the Iglesia de San Juan Bautista squats solidly between cafés where elderly men play dominoes under heaters that glow even in April. The church's Gothic bones wear a Baroque skin added after the 1755 Lisbon earthquake shook half the ceiling down. Inside, the retablo is pure Renaissance bling—gilded pine cones and cherubs that would make a Florentine feel at home. Mass times are posted on the door; turn up at 11:00 on Sunday and you'll hear Valencian spoken faster than any Duolingo course.

Two Towns for the Price of One

What makes Alcalà unusual is its split personality. Administrative boundaries don't care about tourist brochures, so the municipality stretches right to the water, incorporating the low-rise beach strip of Alcossebre. Here the architecture switches from stone to stucco, height limits stay at four floors, and the promenade is still paved with Portuguese cobbles rather than imitation marble. Playa de Las Fuentes, at the southern end, shelves so gently that at low tide you can waddle 50 metres before water reaches your waist—hence the nickname "Paddle Beach" adopted by repeat British families.

The contrast is deliberate. When coastal land was first parcelled out in the 1970s, the mayor (a farmer descended from castle-serfs) refused permission for tower blocks. The result feels closer to a Greek island than to Benidorm: showers are cold taps in breeze-block huts, and the only nightclub is a chiringuito that closes at midnight because the owners need to get up for fishing.

Walking Off the Rice

You don't come here for raucous nightlife; you come to walk, then eat, then walk again. The PR-CV 147 path leaves from the castle car park and loops through almond terraces to the ruined Ermita de Santa Ana. The climb is 250 metres of puff, rewarded by views that stretch to the Ebro delta on clear days. Spring brings a carpet of pink verbena and the smell of wild thyme; in September the same path crunches with fallen almonds that you can pocket for later.

Back at sea level, the coastal route south to Cala Blanca is rough underfoot—bring trainers you don't mind scraping against limestone. The reward is a string of tiny coves where snorkellers float above posidonia meadows that keep the water gin-clear. If you time it right, you'll have lunch at the solitary bar in Cala Blanca, where the menu is chalked daily and the owner might refuse to serve you if the sea is too rough for the supply boat.

What to Eat Without Showing Off

Forget Instagram-ready foam. The local kitchen is proudly medieval: rice, fish, almonds, olive oil. Arroz a banda arrives dark with cuttlefish ink but contains no shellfish, a relief for anyone still scarred by a dodgy mussel in Magaluf. Calçots—fat spring onions charred over vine prunings—appear between February and April; eat them standing up, peeling the blackened outer layer and dipping the sweet heart into romesco sauce. The ritual is messy enough that restaurants hand out bibs and spare napkins.

Casa Ricardo, on the old-town's main drag, does a chuletón (T-bone the size of a Yorkshire pudding tray) served with chips that Brits actually recognise. Price hovers around €24 per person if you share; book after 21:00 when locals finally think about dinner. Down at the beach, Restaurante El Mirador grills sardines outdoors so the smoke drifts across the promenade—£12 buys a plateful, bread, and a glass of cloudy white wine from neighbouring Castellón.

When the Town Shuts, and When It Doesn't

Practical warning: outside July and August, Alcossebre half-closes. Many restaurants take Tuesday off, and the Spar on the seafront is the only shop open on Sunday mornings. Come in May or late September and you'll find parking spaces but also shuttered façades; the upside is hotel rates that drop by 40%. The castle fiestas (1–3 June) pack the old town with processions and late-night concerts—fun if you like crowds, hopeless if you need an early night.

Winter is properly quiet. Daytime temperatures hover around 15 °C, ideal for hiking, but the wind off the sea can feel like Norfolk in February. Several British couples rent flats from January to March, filling the bars with talk of council tax and grandchildren, happy to trade drizzle for almond blossom.

Getting Here, Getting Round

Valencia airport is 90 minutes south on the AP-7 toll road (€12). Reus is closer (75 min) if Ryanair's timetable behaves, but car hire desks close for siesta—land after 16:00 and you may wait an hour. A transfer bus links Valencia airport to Alcossebre twice daily in summer only; off-season you'll need wheels. The old town and the beach are 8 km apart, linked by a local bus that runs roughly hourly except between 14:00 and 17:30 when, predictably, Spain stops.

Petrol is cheaper than the UK, but watch speed cameras on the N-340—British licences attract the same fines as Spanish ones, and the rental company will chase you for admin fees. If you prefer pedals, bike hire shops in Alcossebre will lend hybrids for €15 a day; the coastal path is flat, but inland lanes rise sharply—electric assistance is worth the extra fiver.

Last Orders

Alcalà de Xivert won't change your life, and that's precisely its appeal. It offers two experiences for the effort of one: a hill town where the butcher still wraps pork in brown paper, and a beach strip without karaoke bars. Bring decent shoes, an appetite for rice, and the patience to accept that the supermarket shuts at 14:00 even when you've run out of teabags. Pack those three things, and the castle view at sunset might just feel like a reward rather than a postcard.