Benifairó de les Valls

The bakery opens at seven, but the smell of warm ensaïmada drifts into Carrer Major by half past. By then, three locals are already leaning against the counter, debating last night's fútbol over cortados. Nobody mentions tourists because, frankly, there rarely are any.

Benifairó de les Valls sits thirty-four metres above sea level in the Camp de Morvedre plain, close enough to the sea to catch the breeze yet far enough inland that coach operators forget it exists. The name trips up Britons who skim the map on the flight over—add an extra syllable and you have Benidorm, 80 km south and a universe away. Here, the only high-rise is the bell-tower of Sant Pere, patched so often that Romanesque, Gothic and baroque share the same stone.

A grid drawn by water

Arab engineers laid out the irrigation channels a millennium ago; the grid of ditches still dictates the lanes. Walk east from the church and you step straight onto a camí de tarongers, a dirt lane flanked by citrus so regimented they could be apple trees in Kent. Except these smell of orange blossom in April, a perfume so heady it makes supermarket "Mediterranean" candles smell like furniture polish. The fruit itself arrives from November onwards—tiny clementines you can peel in one spiral—and farmers stack plastic crates outside their gates on the honour system: €3 for five kilos, coins dropped through a slit in an old paint tin.

The village edges are fuzzier than the centre. Follow the lane for twenty minutes and you reach Sagunto's industrial estate; go ten minutes north and rice paddies begin, fluorescent green, herons picking between the shoots. The coast is fifteen kilometres away, a quarter-hour drive to Sagunto's dun-coloured beach or twenty to Canet's smarter Blue Flag. Locals treat the sea as a weekend afterthought; they prefer the river, the Port de Quartell, where grandfathers teach grandchildren to dam tiny barrages with stones every Sunday after the paella pan is scraped clean.

When the shutters roll down

Midday arrives abruptly. At 13:58 someone's sweeping the pavement; at 14:03 the metal shutters thunder down and the only sound is a distant tractor. Siesta is not folklore here—it's the only way to survive July, when temperatures brush 38 °C and the humidity drags in from the marsh. Plan lunch early (the daily menú at Bar la Mutual costs €12 and includes a half-carafe of wine) or you will find yourself staring at locked doors until 17:00. Sunday is deader still: no supermarket, no petrol station, no apology.

Evenings recover. The ayuntamento turns on the sodium streetlights, parents occupy the plastic chairs outside Cafè Nou, and teenagers circle on bikes they've been riding since primary school. There's no nightclub, no mini-golf, no karaoke. What you get instead is conversation—slow Valencian sprinkled with English picked up from seasonal picking work in Kent and Worcester. Ask directions and you may hear about someone who once lived in Slough; ask about food and the chat turns to which rice brand holds its bite.

Rice, pastry and the Naples fallback

Valencian cookbooks insist the proper paella contains rabbit and garrofón beans; local cooks add whatever the garden offers. Thursday is paella day at Pizzeria Accés, ironically the best place to try it. The restaurant occupies a converted garage beside the CV-322; inside, the oven runs at 450 °C and the Neapolitan pies earn raves from Italians who holiday nearby. If children mutiny at rabbit, the margherita is thin, blistered and cut tableside with scissors.

Breakfast is safer at the bakery opposite the church. Ensaïmada looks like a Danish that has spent time down the gym: coiled, flaky, dusted with icing sugar but not cloying. Pair it with a café con leche the size of a soup bowl and you have change from €3. Plastic cards sometimes fail; carry notes, preferably small ones. Several British visitors have had to leave a driving licence as collateral while they hunted a cash machine.

Trails, pedals and the wrong shoes

Flat country makes for easy cycling. A loop south through the orange groves to Estivella and back is 18 km; you will meet more dogs than cars. The tourist office—open Tuesday and Thursday morning only—hands out a photocopied map showing three signed walks, the longest 8 km. None require boots; trainers suffice, though after rain the clay sticks like mortar. Spring is kindest: blossom overhead, poppies between the rows, temperatures in the low twenties. Autumn smells of fermenting fruit crushed under-tyre; August is simply a test of stamina.

Winter surprises. When a tramuntana wind sweeps down from Aragón, night-time temperatures can dip to 3 °C. The village has no heating beyond wall-mounted electric units; El Pati de la Laia, the only guest-house, supplies extra blankets rather than wattage. Book only if you enjoy courtyard quiet broken by the church bell every half-hour. Otherwise stay in Sagunto (15 min drive) or Valencia city and visit for the day.

Fireworks in miniature

Festivals here are family scale. The last weekend of June is Sant Pere, patron saint of fishermen and, by extension, a village that traded fish along the river long before oranges arrived. A brass band marches, toddlers ride ponies round the plaza, and at midnight someone wheels out a firework castle the height of a house. Sparks ricochet off the houses; nobody blinks. August brings Nit de l'Albà when neighbours set off single rockets from their rooftops—think Bonfire Night minus the fairground, plus sangria in plastic cups. Moros y Cristianos in September is modest: sixty locals in polyester tunics, a drum, a priest with a loud-hailer. It lasts ninety minutes and ends with nougat.

How to arrive, how to leave

Fly London-Valencia (2 h 20 min) with easyJet or Ryanair, pick up a hire car at the airport and head north on the AP-7. Toll is €6.50, journey 45 minutes. Public transport exists but feels like an endurance test: C-6 train to Sagunto, then bus L210, total two hours, last return at 19:30. Fill the tank on Saturday night; petrol stations close on Sunday and the nearest 24-hour pump is 20 km away.

Leave before checkout and you can be on the beach by ten, Roman theatre ruins by eleven, back to the airport for an afternoon flight. That is what most people do—tick the box marked "authentic Spain" and accelerate towards the motorway. The bakery will reopen at seven tomorrow; the orange trees will still be there, scenting the air for whoever remembers to stop.