Benissa

The church bells strike noon, and suddenly Benissa's narrow streets fill with the clatter of walking sticks. Not tourists—locals. They've emerged from stone doorways for the paseo, that deliberate Spanish afternoon stroll that turns a village into a living room. From the Gothic arch of Portal de la Marina, you can watch them descend past medieval walls towards Plaza de la Iglesia, where the neo-Gothic towers of Purísima Xiqueta rise like exclamation points above the terra-cotta roofs.

This is Benissa's first surprise: a proper Spanish town that happens to own four kilometres of coastline. Perched 250 metres above sea level, the historic centre maintains the rhythm of an inland village while the Mediterranean glimmers below like an afterthought. The arrangement works. Farmers still tend ancient terraces of Moscatel grapes, and the Saturday market spills across Plaza del Rey Jaume I with the same produce that's graced these stalls for decades. Yet fifteen minutes downhill, kayaks bob in Cala Advocat's turquoise water.

The old town rewards those who ditch the map. Calle Desamparados narrows until shoulders brush honey-coloured stone. Overhead, wrought-iron balconies sag with geraniums. The Casa Abadía's Renaissance courtyard—now municipal offices—opens unexpectedly to visitors; push through the heavy door to find a fountain where swallows dip and swoop. Around the corner, the fifteenth-century Llotja hosts occasional concerts, its Gothic ribs acoustically perfect for Spanish guitar. These aren't attractions so much as places still being used, worn smooth by centuries of feet.

Down at the coast, it's a different century entirely. The CV-740 switchbacks past new-build villas until suddenly you're breathing salt air. Cala Fustera's beach bar serves decent coffee to Brits who've rented the same white villa for five years running. They've worked out the system: arrive before ten for parking, bring rubber shoes for the pebble-to-sand entry, stay for the Sunday market's £3 leather belts. The coastal path eastwards threads past Pinets and Advocat, wooden boardwalks giving way to rocky scrambles. It's hardly wilderness—electricity pylons march overhead—but the water clears remarkably once away from the sunbathers.

That water quality draws snorkellers when conditions calm. Cala Advocat's eastern headland drops to ten metres, where boulders create gullies dense with saddled sea bream and the occasional octopus. Kayak rentals operate from Fustera in summer, guiding punters towards sea caves accessible only from water. The honest assessment? It's good, not great. You won't find Caribbean coral, but after the Costa Blanca's more developed stretches, the relative quiet feels luxurious.

Back in town, food follows altitude. Up here, it's arroz a banda cooked in fish stock but served separate from seafood, less confrontational for British palates than full-on paella. The olleta benissera resembles a hearty bean stew; think Spanish cassoulet with pork ribs and black pudding. Down at the coast, restaurant menus lean Mediterranean—grilled squid tentacles with paprika, prawns sizzling in garlic. La Fonda, the only hotel actually inside the historic centre, does a respectable fixed-price lunch on their courtyard terrace. Three courses including wine runs €18 if you avoid the imported beef.

Walking options split between agricultural and coastal. The Riuraus trail loops through vineyards dotted with stone drying huts—those arched structures once used for Muscatel raisins. It's gentle, signposted, and mercifully shaded. Harder going tackles the Bernia ridge, where a three-hour circuit delivers views across to Altea and sometimes Ibiza on clear days. The path climbs steeply from the CV-753; proper boots essential, water critical even in spring.

Access remains Benissa's persistent headache. Alicante airport sits seventy-three kilometres south—an hour by hire car on the AP-7, longer on the free N-332 that crawls through every coastal town. The nearest tram stop in Calpe requires a taxi for the final eight kilometres uphill. Buses exist but follow logic only Spanish planners understand: morning departures from Benissa, afternoon returns, nothing mid-day. Without wheels, you're essentially marooned.

Which might be the point. August fills with fiesta—Moors and Christians parade through narrow streets, fireworks echoing off stone until 2 am. Roads close. Parking evaporates. But visit in late September, when the grape harvest perfumes the air, and you'll share the morning market with locals rather than tour groups. The light softens. Sea and mountain both visible from the church square achieve that particular Mediterranean clarity photographers chase but never quite capture.

Benissa doesn't shout for attention. It simply continues being two places simultaneously: a hill town where old men argue over dominoes, and a scatter of coves where northern Europeans perfect their tan. The genius lies in the balance. You can spend breakfast watching fishing boats unload in Calpe, lunch on medieval walls, and dinner tasting wines made from grapes grown on slopes you walked that morning. Just don't expect anyone to hold your hand through it. Arrive with realistic expectations—pebbly beaches, patchy public transport, restaurants that close kitchen at 4 pm—and Benissa reveals why so many Brits return yearly to the same whitewashed villa, same cove, same bar stool. The village isn't hiding anything. It's merely waiting to see if you're paying attention.