Alfafar

The Suburb That Never Pretended to Be a Postcard

The 08:14 Cercanías train from Valencia-Nord drops you six metres above sea level, on a platform that smells of warm rails and orange-blossom air-freshener. In front of you is a six-lane ring road, behind you a Carrefour hypermarket the size of a small cathedral. Welcome to Alfafar—population 21,800, barely ten kilometres south of Valencia and light-years away from the city’s old-town romanticism. No one claims this is the “real Spain”; instead it offers something British wallets recognise instantly: free parking, three-course menús del día for €12, and a 20-minute bus ride to the Turia gardens.

Alfafar’s identity is stitched together from 1970s brick suburbs, warehouse retail parks and the surviving corners of market gardens that once fed Valencia. The name, from the Arabic “al-fahhar” (the kiln), nods to the Moorish brickworks that lined the river, but today the kilns have been replaced by Ikea flat-packs. Even so, the place works as a low-fringe base if you want a poolside hotel for £65 a night rather than £165 nearer the cathedral.

What Passes for Old These Days

Start in the triangle formed by Carrer Major, Carrer de la Pau and Carrer de Sant Roc—what locals still call “el poble”. The streets are narrow enough to shade each other at noon, and the balconies hold geraniums in Fanta bottles. The parish church of Nuestra Señora de los Ángeles squats at the centre, a mash-up of Gothic bones, Baroque plaster and 1960s concrete patching. The bell tower lost its Victorian tiles in a 1957 storm; the replacements are salmon-pink and nobody apologises. Inside, the smell is of beeswax and vacuum cleaner; outside, the plaza’s benches host a daily tribunal of retirees judging dog-walkers. It is not pretty, but it is alive.

Walk five minutes east and the tarmac widens into Avenida de la Foia, where the original farm lanes survive as drainage ditches between carpet warehouses. One intact alquería (farmhouse) remains: whitewashed, with blue shutters and a palm tree leaning like a drunk. The family still sells oranges from a honesty box—€3 for five kilos, cash only, scribbled in biro on a broken tile.

Retail Therapy and Other Modern Pilgrimages

British visitors with early flights treat Alfafar as a last-chance stop for those odd Spanish essentials: €1.25 bottles of gin at the petrol station, or cola-cao at 24-hour Cash & Carry. The big draw, though, is Alfafar Centro mall—air-conditioned, underground parking free for four hours, and clean loos that make the beach facilities at Playa de la Malvarrosa feel medieval. Inside you’ll find Primark prices with Spanish sizing (size 14 here is a UK 10—try not to panic) and a hypermarket aisle devoted entirely to tinned seafood. Sunday opening is 10:00-22:00, handy when Valencia’s old town is shuttered tighter than a Ryanair cabin bag.

Across the ring road, the furniture outlets sell leather sofas that can be flat-packed into a Ford Focus if you remove the kids. Delivery to the UK runs €350—more than the sofa, which is why you see Brits at the DHL depot mailing cushion covers home and leaving the frame behind.

Rice, Ribs and Other Calorie Solutions

Eating in Alfafar is refreshingly free offusion tapas and rooftop mixologists. The locals’ lunch starts at 14:00 and ends with coffee at 16:30; turn up at 16:31 and the kitchen is closed. La Murta on Avinguda de la Valldigna does a three-course menu: salad bowl the size of a satellite dish, followed by arroz al horno (baked rice with pork ribs and chickpeas) and a slab of flan. House wine is served in 250 ml glass jugs—enough to make the afternoon bus feel like a funfair ride.

British families cluster at Colonial Buffet, a Spanish–Chinese–Italian free-for-all where kids under ten eat free on Sundays. Expect roast chicken, chips, pizza and a vat of rice pudding labelled “British dessert”. The roast potatoes are eerily identical to those at Toby Carvery; the paella tray beside them is ignored by everyone except the Spanish grandparents who treat the place with amused suspicion.

For something approaching authenticity, duck into Nostre Chillout after 20:00. Plastic chairs on the pavement, Estrella on tap, and a short list of grilled skewers. Order the pinchos de pollo and a plate of pimientos de Padrón; the waiter will correct your Spanish and then chat about Leeds United because he spent a season at Elland Road.

From Ring Road to Rice Fields

Alfafar’s back fence is the CV-500, the road that slides south into the Albufera lagoon. Hire a bike at the shopping mall (€15 a day, helmet thrown in) and within fifteen minutes the sound of mopeds is replaced by egrets squabbling in the irrigation channels. In April the rice paddies are mirror-flat, reflecting clouds like broken skylight. By late June the plants are knee-high and smell of damp earth and compost. There are no signposts, only the occasional farmer on a motorbike balancing a rake across the handlebars. Stick to the raised dirt track; if you fall in, the mud is ankle-deep and smells faintly of sulphur—pack wet-wipes.

The lagoon itself is five kilometres further, but you’ll hit the first bird-hide at El Saler. Bring binoculars: glossy ibis, purple heron and the inevitable British twitcher in full khaki who’ll tell you they’ve “come all the way from Norfolk for the red-knobbed coot”.

When the Fireworks Start

Visit in mid-March and Alfafar joins the rest of Valencia in pyromaniac mode. Fallas means daily mascletàs (gunpowder concerts that feel like standing inside a bass drum) and nightly fireworks until 01:00. The suburb’s own monument is modest—papier-mâché satire of local politicians, torched on 19 March—but the bangs echo off the tower blocks just as loudly as in the city centre. Light-sleepers should request a room facing the shopping mall, not the street.

Summer fiestas in late August are gentler: outdoor cinema showing dubbed Tom Hanks films, foam parties for teenagers, and a procession where the Virgin is carried from the church to a paella tent in the park. Visitors are handed a plastic plate and a fork; the rice is free, the beer €1.50. Dress code is shorts and respect.

Getting Out Without Getting Stuck

Alfafar’s usefulness lies in its exits. The metro-train combo to Valencia airport takes 35 minutes door-to-door: Cercanías to Torrent, then Line 1 metro, total cost €3. A taxi at 06:00 is €25 and the driver knows the Ibis postcode by heart. If you’re driving north on the AP-7, fill the tank at the Carrefour petrol station—diesel is routinely 8 cpl cheaper than on the motorway.

Check-out time in most hotels is 12:00; if your flight is late, leave the cases at reception and walk ten minutes to the indoor municipal pool (€4 day pass, towel €1). The lifeguard speaks enough English to explain that Speedos are compulsory—board shorts are banned, so bring budgie-smugglers or prepare to buy a pair from the vending machine for €12.

Alfafar will never make the glossy brochures. It is ordinary, functional, occasionally ugly and—on a tight budget—surprisingly useful. Treat it as a utility room rather than the sitting room of your trip: not somewhere to linger, but somewhere that keeps the rest of the holiday running smoothly.