Vilamarxant

The smell hits you before you've even parked. Not salt spray or seaweed, but orange blossom drifting from groves that press right up against the pavements. Vilamarxant sits just 25 kilometres inland from Valencia, yet it feels continents away from the coastal strip that most British visitors know. Here, the Mediterranean is a distant memory, replaced by irrigation ditches, packing warehouses and the rhythmic thud of citrus dropping into trailers.

At 160 metres above sea level, the village occupies that sweet spot where the coastal plain begins its gentle climb towards the interior mountains. The altitude knocks the edge off summer humidity, though July and August still push 35°C. Come March, however, the thermometer hovers at a civilised 22°C and the air carries enough perfume to make the morning coffee redundant. Those are the weeks when Spanish day-trippers appear, cameras pointed not at monuments but at blossom-heavy branches arching over country lanes.

A Working Town, Not a Stage Set

Ignore the guidebook Spanish that promises 'sleepy hilltop charm'. Vilamarxant is flat, functional and proud of it. The old centre clusters around Plaza Mayor, a generous rectangle where grandmothers occupy the benches with the territorial certainty of club armchair members. Their conversation topics rarely vary: the price of oranges, who's marrying whom, and whether the British cyclist currently wheezing past has underestimated the mid-morning heat.

The parish church of La Inmaculada Concepción anchors one side of the square, its bulk the result of centuries of architectural afterthoughts. Gothic foundations support a Baroque tower; inside, a 17th-century retablo glitters beneath fluorescent striplights. It's open most mornings, though you may need to shoulder the door hard – the lock sticks when the temperature drops below 10°C, a design flaw that becomes relevant on January evenings when the village thermometer can dip to 3°C.

Walk five minutes in any direction and new-build estates replace the cobbles. This isn't urban sprawl so much as village breathing space: young families priced out of Valencia commute westwards, swapping city rents for garden patios and Saturday morning football in the municipal polideportivo. The demographic shift means you're as likely to hear reggaeton drifting from a passing Seat León as the church bells that have marked time since 1724.

What to Do When the Blossoms Drop

Activity here follows the agricultural calendar, not the tourist one. Between late October and early May the surrounding groves need harvesting, pruning, irrigating. Visitors are free to wander the dirt tracks that grid the fields, but don't expect interpretive panels or souvenir stalls. Instead you'll find rusting signage warning against pesticide entry, and the occasional farmer on a quad bike who'll wave if you step aside for his trailer.

Serious walkers head south towards the Turia river, where a proper footpath shadows the water for seven kilometres to neighbouring Lliria. The route passes through stands of Aleppo pine and the ruins of Moorish waterwheels, though you'll share the trail with mountain bikers who treat the gravel like a personal speedway. Spring brings the bonus of wild asparagus sprouting beside the path; locals harvest it with the same furtive urgency British foragers reserve for wild garlic.

Cyclists arrive in packs most weekends, attracted by roads that roll rather than assault. The CV-35 rings the village, offering a 40-kilometre loop through orange groves and almond terraces with a cumulative climb of just 300 metres. Café stops are limited to two village bars, both of which close abruptly at 4 p.m. if trade is slow. Bring cash – neither accepts cards for bills under a tenner, and the nearest ATM sometimes runs dry on market day.

Eating Like Someone Who Might Return

Market day is Thursday. Stalls occupy the southern end of Avenida de Valencia from 8 a.m. until the heat drives everyone home around 1 p.m. You'll find the usual Spanish mix: socks, phone cases, tomatoes that actually taste of tomato. The fruit vendor at the third stall in will hack an orange open with a penknife so you can taste before buying; his record is selling 40 kilos to a single German cyclist who planned to pedal back to Valencia with panniers full of vitamin C.

Food options remain resolutely local. Paco's Bar serves a toasted sobrasada-and-honey sandwich that divides British visitors into instant converts and lifelong haters; think spicy spreadable chorizo meets Marmite sweetness. The bakery on Calle Mayor does a sweet-potato doughnut that disappears by 10 a.m. – arrive earlier than you think necessary. For a sit-down lunch, Restaurant L'Estació offers a €12 menu del día that changes daily but always includes chips: safe territory for children who've reached their octopus limit.

Evening dining is more limited. Most kitchens close at 5 p.m. and don't reopen; villagers eat the main meal at 2 p.m. then subsist on bocadillos until breakfast. Your best bet is the terrace at Bar Central, where plates of patatas bravas and glasses of Mahou cost €3 each and the television shows football on perpetual loop. Don't expect English commentary, or indeed any commentary once Valencia CF start losing.

Timing Your Visit, Managing Your Exit

Spring remains the sweet spot: warm days, cool nights, blossom everywhere and the village's few accommodation options half-empty. October works too, once the harvest rush subsides and the rice paddies towards the coast glow gold. Summer belongs to the Spanish; they know which bars have air-conditioning and aren't afraid to use it. Winter is quiet, occasionally bleak, though the Christmas lights strung across Plaza Mayor possess a sincerity that would make Oxford Street weep.

Accommodation choices are limited to three. El Racó de L'Alcúdia offers three guest rooms in a converted townhouse on the northern edge; book directly by email as their booking-engine Spanish defeats most translation apps. Villa Turia, five minutes' drive west, provides self-catering with a pool and space for four cars, handy when the village centre parking fills with market vans. Beyond that lies the Ibis Budget in Lliria, functional but soulless, popular with cyclists who value early breakfasts over local colour.

Getting here demands wheels. Valencia's Metro doesn't reach this far; bus line 113 runs twice daily and finishes before 9 p.m. Hire a car at the airport, take the A-3 west for 45 minutes and exit at signpost 322. The final approach road passes so many orange warehouses you'll think you've taken a wrong turn into an industrial estate. Keep going – the village appears suddenly, compact and unapologetic among the groves.

Leave before Sunday evening if possible. The return traffic towards Valencia builds from 6 p.m. as day-trippers head home, and Monday morning every bar except the bakery keeps its shutters down. Not that you'll be rushing away. Somewhere between the blossom scent and the square's unforced rhythm, Vilamarxant makes a quiet case for staying inland. The coast will still be there tomorrow; these oranges won't wait.