Santa Pola

The first thing that hits you is the smell: diesel, salt and grilling cuttlefish, carried on a breeze that rattles the masts of working trawlers. Santa Pola’s harbour still earns its living from the sea, not from postcards, and the daily auction in the lonja starts at five sharp—long before the first speedboat leaves for Tabarca.

At barely six metres above sea-level, the town stretches along a flat shelf of coast south of Alicante. No sky-scraping hotels block the horizon; instead, six-storey apartment blocks painted the colour of dried paprika line the promenade. They were built for Madrileños who drive down in July, cram three generations into a two-bed flat and argue over who last refilled the ice-tray. British voices are scarce, which is either refreshing or inconvenient, depending on how much pointing you’re prepared to do.

The Castle, the Lighthouse and the Salt Pans

The sixteenth-century fortress squats in the middle of town like a stone bulldog. Inside, the Museu del Marexplains why every alley seems to end in a net-mending yard: pirates once raided these shallows for slaves, and the town replied by building walls thick enough to bounce cannonballs back into the water. Climb the ramparts at dusk and you’ll watch the fishing fleet file home, navigation lights blinking like cheap amber jewellery.

Three kilometres south, the road disintegrates into potholes before reaching the 1858 lighthouse. Hire-car insurance usually stops at the cattle grid, so most people walk or cycle the last stretch. The breeze up here is fierce enough to whip a baseball cap into the Med; it’s also the best free show in the province when the sun drops behind Tabarca and turns the salt pans neon pink.

Those pans—the Salinas Natural Park—are what keep the town from asphyxiating under concrete. Flamingos stalk the shallows most of the year, but they’re not zoo specimens: if the water level drops or a tractor backfires, the whole flock lifts like a pink tablecloth snapped in the wind. Two wooden hides give shelter; bring binoculars and a litre of water because shade is non-existent.

Beaches for Families, Not for Hermits

Playa Levante, the town’s main sweep of sand, is urban in the truest sense. The council grooms the sand daily, showers line the promenade, and a pair of sun-loungers plus parasol sets you back €21 in high season—essential if you don’t want to towel-down on a bed of crushed crisps. The sea is shallow enough for a toddler to wade twenty metres without disappearing, and warm enough in August to feel like soup that’s been left on the hob. Noise levels rise with the temperature; expect sound systems, bounce-castles and vendors hawking iced pineapple.

For breathing space, head east towards the headland where coves are pocket-sized and the seabed turns from sand to rock. You’ll lose the lifeguard, but gain water clear enough to watch a bream eyeball your ankle. Playa Carabassí, technically outside town limits, is backed by dunes and pine scrub; locals bring cool-boxes and stay all day because the nearest bar is a fifteen-minute walk across hot tarmac.

Tabarca: Fifteen Minutes and a Century Away

Boats leave the harbour every half-hour between Easter and October; the return fare is €10 and the crossing takes fifteen minutes of bone-rattling spray. The island measures barely 1,800 metres end to end, yet it holds Spain first marine reserve. Snorkel just about anywhere off the village wall and you’ll fin-over saddled seabream the size of house bricks. Pack water shoes—Tabarca’s beaches are pebbles sharp enough to slice toast.

Restaurants on the island push the same dish: caldero, a fish-and-rice stew that tastes like paella’s rustic cousin. Ask for caldero sin espinas if you don’t fancy picking bones out of your teeth while a waiter hovers. Tables on the ramparts book up by 13:30; miss the slot and you’ll queue with sunburnt day-trippers munching crisps for lunch.

What to Eat When You’re Tired of Chips

Back on the mainland, the daily catch dictates menus. At the harbour market (open to the public 5–7 p.m.) you can watch wholesalers bid on crates of red mullet still flipping. Ten metres away, Taberna El Puerto serves boquerones al limón—tiny anchovies tossed in flour, fried for twenty seconds and finished with a squeeze of lemon. They arrive so crisp you can eat the tails like crisps, and a plate costs €4.50, less than a pint back home.

If the children mutiny against anything with antennae, retreat to Blue Monkey on Carabassí beach for a burger that drips cheese the colour of motorway cones. Otherwise, the fixed-price lunch (menú del día) hovers around €12–15 and usually nets you grilled squid, chips, dessert and a glass of wine weak enough to cycle home on.

When to Come and When to Stay Away

May and late-September give you 25 °C days, half-price accommodation and room to park. August is a different country: temperatures brush 38 °C, the promenade becomes a slow-moving caravan of pushchairs and grandparents, and you’ll queue ten minutes for an ice-cream cone that melts before you pay. British school holidays don’t always align with Spanish ones—check fiesta dates or you’ll land in the middle of the Virgen de Loreto procession, when loud-hailers start at dawn and every balcony hangs a banner.

Whatever the month, air-conditioning is non-negotiable. Night-time temperatures barely dip below 26 °C in midsummer, and the breeze that cools the lighthouse never reaches street level. Apartments without A/C advertise themselves as “authentic”; read that as sleepless.

Getting Here, Getting Round, Getting Stuck

Alicante airport is 15 km north—twenty minutes by taxi (€25) or forty on the C-6 bus (€3.50) if you don’t mind sitting beside a suitcase full of duty-free gin. Once in town, everything is flat; hire a bike for €8 a day or walk until your flip-flops wear thin. Free parking exists on streets east of the castle after 14:00, but the blue zone costs €1.40 an hour and attendants work faster than you can say “I thought Sunday was free”.

The single-track road to the lighthouse is technically uninsured on most hire contracts; walk it at sunset instead and you’ll see swifts dive-bombing the cliffs while the offshore turbines blink like slow-motion lighthouses themselves.

Last Orders

Santa Pola won’t give you whitewashed alleyways festooned with geraniums, nor will it whisper secrets of undiscovered Spain—38,000 people and half of Madrid have already discovered it. What it offers is a coast that still earns its keep, beaches cleaned by people who swim there themselves, and restaurants where the chef probably patched the nets this morning. Bring binoculars, patience for school-holiday volume, and enough Spanish to order coffee without milk. The town will do the rest, loudly and without apology.