Benimarfull

The Road That Filters Tourists

The CV-700 doesn't mess about. Within ten minutes of leaving the A-7's coastal crawl, the tarmac narrows, the camber tilts, and suddenly you're second-guessing that hire-car insurance waiver. Hair-pin follows hair-pin for twenty-four kilometres, climbing through almond terraces until Benimarfull appears—a scatter of terracotta roofs caught between two barrancos. Most drivers turn back. Those who don't discover why the village's 422 residents rarely lock their doors.

At 416 metres, the air carries a faint chill even in May. The Costa Blanca's concrete strip feels imaginary up here; instead, medieval field patterns stitch across slopes that blush white with cherry blossom each March. British photographers arrive at dawn, tripods balanced on dry-stone walls, chasing that elusive shot when the valley resembles Kyoto rather than Alicante province. By 10 a.m. the light flattens and coach parties from Benidorm clog the lay-bys—time to retreat into the village itself.

A Grid That Predates Google Maps

Park by the fuente at the entrance; spaces are free and, frankly, unlimited. From here the streets follow their Moorish blueprint, narrow and tilted, designed for donkeys not diesel. Houses built from local mampostería lean inward, creating strips of shade where residents position plastic chairs each evening. There's no tourist office—directions come from whoever happens to be outside watering geraniums.

The Iglesia de San Juan Bautista squats at the top, its sandstone bell-tower patched after an 18th-century earthquake. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees. Gold leaf is notably absent; instead, you'll find polished pine pews and a single Baroque altarpiece rescued from a fire in 1932. Mass times are Saturday 19:00, Sunday 11:00—turn up five minutes early and you'll likely be asked to hold the collection basket.

Behind the altar a small door opens onto the sacristy, where the priest keeps handwritten baptism records dating to 1643. Ask nicely (a fiver in the donation box helps) and he'll show you the entry for the last British family who settled here—Lancashire textile workers fleeing the 1931 recession. Their descendants still holiday in the village each September, importing Tetley tea and Henderson's Relish.

What Grows Between the Stones

Benimarfull's economy never pivoted to tourism, which explains the absence of souvenir shops flogging inflatable flamingos. Agriculture dominates: almonds, cherries, olives, plus a resurgent crop of saffron crocuses that thrive in the chalky soil. Walk the camino that loops past the cemetery at sunset and you'll spot purple threads drying on mesh racks—gram for gram worth more than the average weekly pension.

The saffron appears in surprisingly delicate dishes at Bar Berna, the village's only public eating option. Owner Bernardo serves a chilled cherry gazpacho between March and May, the fruit replacing tomatoes for a soup that tastes like summer pudding in liquid form. His almond tart has been compared to Bakewell pudding minus the jam; portions are generous, prices stubbornly low (€2.50 a slice, €1.20 for coffee). Cards are refused—there's no signal for the machine. Bring cash or wash dishes.

For self-caterers, the tiny grocery opens 09:00–13:00, then 17:00–20:00. Stock is basic: tinned tuna, UHT milk, local chorizo mild enough for tentative British palates. The house white from Vall de Travadell co-op costs €3.50 and tastes like a dryer Albariño; ask for "vino de la casa" rather than pointing. Fresh fruit and veg arrive Thursday morning in a white van whose prices are scrawled on cardboard. Cherries in season? €2 a kilo. Try finding that in Waitrose.

Trails That Join the Dots

Three way-marked paths start from the fountain. The shortest (4 km, yellow dashes) circles through almond terraces to the abandoned Mas de Pau farmhouse, where swallows nest in the rafters. Mid-length (9 km, white-red GR) drops into the Barranc de l'Infern, climbs through rosemary scrub, and re-enters the village from the west—allow three hours, carry water, expect loose scree underfoot.

serious walkers can link to the 21-km PR-CV 147 which connects Muro de Alcoy with Benilloba, passing Benimarfull midway. The route follows old muleteer tracks paved during the 19th-century ice trade; look for carvings of crosses on boundary stones where traders once paused to pray before descending to the coast. Mobile coverage is patchy—download the GPX file while you still have 4G in Alcoy.

Winter hikes come with a caveat: the CV-700 can ice over above 400 m. Chains are rarely required but prudent drivers stash a set in the boot. Conversely, July and August send temperatures into the high thirties; start early, finish by 11 a.m., then retreat to Berna's shaded terrace for a clara (lager with lemon) while the village sleeps behind closed shutters.

Fiestas Where Nobody Sells Sombreros

Festivity calendar revolves around agriculture. The Cherry Fair (third weekend March) turns the plaça into an open-air market: stalls weighed down with ruby fruit, buckets of blossoms for €5, and a raffle whose first prize is fifty kilos of prime almonds—enough to keep a British family in Bakewell tarts for a year. Dancing starts after the Saturday parade; expect pasodoble blaring from speakers balanced on a tractor trailer.

June brings the patronal fiestas for San Juan. A foam party for kids on Friday night might sound naff, but watching grandparents hose down toddlers in the square carries its own charm. Sunday's procession departs the church at 11:30 sharp; bearers carry the saint's effigy while a brass band wheezes out traditional hymns. British visitors often find themselves invited to join the communal paella—ingredients donated by each household, stirred by whoever claims the longest spoon.

August adds summer fiestas with outdoor cinema and a running-of-the-bulls so low-key that the animals look bored. The difference here is access: stand anywhere along the 200-metre route and you're part of the action. No ticketed grandstands, no €12 cerveza. Just respect the unwritten rule—move when the local kids move.

The Useful Bits No One Mentions

Petrol: last 24-hour station is Repsol on the A-7 junction at Ontinyent. Running dry on the mountain earns you a €180 tow.

Cash: nearest ATM sits inside Muro's Santander branch, twelve kilometres down the CV-700. It charges €2 per withdrawal and occasionally runs out of notes on Saturdays.

Accommodation: Benimarfull holds two legal rental cottages (search "casas rurales Benimarfull"). Both sleep four, cost €70–90 per night, and include logs for the fireplace. Anything cheaper on booking sites is actually in Muro—double-check the map pin.

Weather: spring blossom arrives late March; book early because photographers reserve cottages a year ahead. October brings wild-mushroom season and lower prices. August is hot, quiet, half the houses shuttered—perfect if you want the village to yourself, less so if you expect nightlife.

Exit Strategy

Leave early on Sunday and you'll meet tractors heading to the fields, dogs balanced on mudguards. The descent feels less dramatic than the climb; pull over at the mirador two kilometres out for a final photograph—the village appears as a terracotta wedge between green terraces, the sea a silver line thirty kilometres beyond. Then it's back to the coast, the traffic, the English-breakfast cafés. Benimarfull doesn't do souvenirs; the memory of empty roads and €1.20 coffee will have to suffice.