Barxeta

The 6 am bells from the baroque tower of la Purísima carry further than you’d expect at only 93 m above sea level. In Barxeta they double as an alarm clock for the 5,000-odd residents and, unintentionally, for the handful of visitors who’ve rented one of the village’s scattered farmhouses. By the time the echo dies away, the first tractors are already ticking over in the lanes between citrus rows, and the air smells of diesel and orange blossom depending on which way you face.

This is the Costera comarca, half an hour inland from Xàtiva and a world away from the coastal clamour Brits usually associate with Valencia. There is no sea view, no gift shop strip, and—crucially—no queue for anything. What you get instead is a functioning agricultural settlement that happens to have a couple of medieval wall fragments, a surprisingly grand parish church and a irrigation network laid out by the Moors that still dictates the working day.

Walking the acequias

Start at the small information panel beside the town hall: a faded map shows how melt-water from the neighbouring Serra de la Costera is channelled into narrow ditches that slice the groves into neat rectangles. Follow any dirt track heading south-east and within five minutes you’re flanked by bitter-orange trees so heavily laden that the lower branches rest on the ground. The paths are level, shade is partial, and a circular trundle to the hamlet of El Palomar and back takes just under an hour—ideal if you’re travelling with children who’d rather count lizards than kilometres.

Spring is the obvious sweet spot: blossom scents the air and daytime temperatures sit in the low 20 °C. Come summer the mercury scrapes 35 °C by noon; walking is best finished before the church bells strike nine. Autumn brings the cosecha—pickers’ ladders lean against trunks and the roads are dusted with fallen peel. Winter is quiet, occasionally frosty, and the only time you might have a restaurant entirely to yourself.

What passes for sights

Barxeta’s museum count is zero, so sight-seeing here is more forensic than flashy. In the compact centre every second facade carries a date stone: 1743 on the corner house with the green balcony, 1827 above the chemist. Ironwork is simple, balconies shallow, colours muted—ochre, stone, dusty rose. Nothing is postcard-perfect, yet the homogeneity is what photographers end up trying to capture.

The Iglesia de la Purísima Concepción keeps the same hours as the parish priest, roughly 8 am–1 pm and 5 pm–8 pm. Inside, the main retable is a gilded explosion typical of mid-18th-century Valencia, but the real attraction is the side chapel where local farmers still leave small offerings before the harvest—an agricultural tradition older than any tourism board. Climb the tower if the sacristan is around (donation €2) and you’ll see the orange carpet stretch to the foothills, interrupted only by the occasional red-tiled roof.

A short stretch of medieval wall survives behind the carrer dels Murters. It is not illuminated, interpreted or fenced off; you can touch the stone, photograph it, or ignore it completely. That casual approach sums up the village attitude: history is present, not performative.

Eating like a local (and not going hungry)

There are only three proper places to sit down, and two of those double as bars for the morning cortado crowd. The third is La Visteta, on the western edge of town inside a converted farmhouse big enough for weddings. Brits who’ve stumbled on it via TripAdvisor tend to mention the same things: no English menu, full tables of Valencian families, and paella worth the 25-minute wait while it’s finished over wood fire. House rule: minimum two people, order when you book—phone ahead on weekends or risk watching everyone else eat.

If you just need menu del día, the Bar Central beside the church offers three courses, bread and a carafe of wine for €12. Expect grilled pork, chips-free chicken or a vegetable cocido depending on what the market stall had that morning. Payment is cash; the card machine has been “broken tomorrow” for several years.

When to time your visit—and when not to

December’s Fiestas de la Purísima bring lights, a small funfair and a procession that blocks the main road for an evening. Accommodation within the village fills up with returning emigrants, so book early or stay in Xàtiva and drive over. Semana Santa (Easter) is more devotional than touristy: hooded processions at a slow drumbeat, amplified prayers bouncing off stone walls. Mid-August fiestas swap solemnity for foam parties and late-night orxata stalls; temperatures remain above 25 °C even at midnight, so light sleepers should avoid rooms facing the plaza.

Outside fiesta weeks you’ll share the streets with the regular population, which is both the appeal and the limitation. Shops shut from 2 pm–5 pm; the only evening buzz is the murmur from terrace bars where half the clientele are related. If you crave nightlife beyond a second coffee liqueur, you’ll be driving to Xàtiva.

Getting here (and away)

Valencia and Alicante airports are equidistant, about 70–80 minutes on the A-7 followed by the CV-655, a single-carriageway road that winds through groves and the occasional lorry loaded with crates. Car hire is almost mandatory: there is no train, and the Autocares Fernández service from Xàtiva runs twice daily, timed more for schoolchildren than tourists. In winter early-morning fog can close the CV-655 for an hour; leave extra time if you have a flight to catch.

Accommodation is scattered in the countryside—look for casas rurales on Spanish booking sites. Most sleep six to ten, have private pools and price themselves at €120–€180 a night for the whole house, making them economical for extended families. There is no hotel in the village itself; the nearest chain option is in Canals, 12 km away, functional but forgettable.

The bottom line

Barxeta offers no selfies with costumed Romans, no infinity-pool sunsets, no souvenir made in China. What it does deliver is the chance to see an agricultural Valencian community operate at its own pace, eat rice that was growing a field away a month earlier, and walk paths where the loudest sound is an irrigation gate clanking shut. Come armed with a car, a phrasebook and modest expectations, and you’ll leave wondering why more people don’t bypass the coast altogether.