El Poble Nou de Benitatxell

The 142-metre drop from El Poble Nou de Benitatxell to the sea is measured in switchbacks, not metres. One moment you’re circling the village plaza past the 18th-century church, the next you’re on a lane so steep the hire-car gearbox whines in protest. Below, the Mediterranean flashes between pine trunks like a mirage that keeps sliding out of reach.

This is a place that refuses to choose between mountain and coast. It clings to the last ridge of the Marina Alta, sending stone walls down to tiny rock beaches while its back door opens onto almond terraces and the odd stubborn vineyard. The result is a town that feels neither fully inland nor wholly seaside—somewhere you can breakfast on toast rubbed with tomato and olive oil, then spend the morning watching moray eels weave through seagrass at Cala del Moraig before driving ten minutes uphill for a lunch that still costs under a tenner.

The village that never quite made the postcard rack

Benitatxell’s centre is a compact grid of whitewashed houses and sloping lanes where the loudest noise is usually the church bell or a moped coughing up Calle Lepanto. There are no souvenir arcades, no barkers offering happy-hour sangria. On Sundays the bar terraces fill with extended Spanish families; tourists get curious smiles rather than laminated menus in five languages. The single cash machine lives inside the Spar, so draw euros in Jávea or Teulada before you arrive—plastic is treated with polite suspicion.

The parish church of Santa María Magdalena watches over it all with a modest baroque façade the colour of warm bread. Step inside and the temperature drops five degrees; the stone floor bears the waxy scent of decades of candle smoke. Outside again, a five-minute wander brings you to the mirador at the old slaughterhouse—yes, really—where the cliff edge shears away and, on clear days, Ibiza floats like a bruise on the horizon.

Rock, salt and the long way down

Cala del Moraig is the headline act, but arrival is half the drama. The access road corkscrews downhill, narrowing until two Fiats can’t pass without one reversing. Reach the cliff-top car park early—before 10 am in July—or a polite policeman will wave you back up the hill. From there a paved ramp zigzags to the cove: 140 steps, no handrail, no mercy for prams or dodgy knees. The reward is a scoop of dark-pebble beach flanked by walls of limestone that echo every splash. Water clarity is almost offensive; snorkellers float above posidonia meadows like airborne paratroopers.

At the western end a sea arch, Cova dels Arcs, tunnels through the headland. Kayak at slack tide and you can glide right through; arrive on foot at sunset and the opening frames a rectangle of molten orange. Instagram loves it, but the cave has no patience for carelessness. Swells surge without warning; every summer the coastguard winches someone out with a broken ankle and a soaked phone.

Smaller coves lie farther along the cliff path, but they make you earn it. Cala dels Testos demands a 25-minute scramble over loose rock; trainers with grip are non-negotiable. Cala Llebeig takes closer to 40 minutes and a thigh-burning climb back up. Carry water—one bottle per person, minimum—and start early; by 1 pm the stone radiates heat like a storage heater.

Walking the line where Spain keeps its edge

The Ruta de los Acantillados stitches these coves into a seven-kilometre coastal traverse that many British walkers rate above any pay-to-enter beauty spot on the Costa Blanca. Setting off from Cala Moraig at dawn, you’ll meet only the odd German in serious boots and a local with three dogs. The path hugs the cliff lip, narrowing to a single boot-width in places; loose chippings skitter into the void. Vertigo sufferers should turn back at the first warning sign—no shame, the drops are 80 metres straight onto rock teeth.

Midway stands Torre de la Llorença, a 16th-century watchtower built to spot Barbary pirates. The mortar has gone the colour of burnt toast, but the spiral staircase still holds. Climb to the roof and the view stretches from the sugar-loaf outline of Peñón de Ifach to the glass towers of Benidorm, 40 kilometres distant yet looking close enough to touch. Swallows use the tower as a waypoint, swooping through empty window slots at eye level.

Inland options exist if the sea turns rough. The Passeig Ecològic loops through terraced almonds and carob trees, rising gently to 300 metres. Spring brings a confetti of blossom; by June the almonds have furry green jackets and the air smells of sun-baked herbs. Information boards appear in Valencian, Spanish and English that actually makes sense—rare on this coast.

Rice, wreckfish and the politics of prawns

Back in the village, lunchtime starts late. Bars fire up their grills around 2 pm; turn up earlier and you’ll be handed a beer while the cook finishes her cigarette. Ca Toni Mónica, on Plaza de la Iglesia, does a tidy tapas lineup: garlic prawns sizzling in pottery dishes, pork skewers crusted with rock salt, and a house gazpacho that’s more liquid salad than soup. They’ll print an English menu without being asked, yet the coffee still costs €1.20—no tourist surcharge.

If you want elevation with your calories, drive five minutes to La Cumbre on the neighbouring urbanisation. The terrace sits 200 metres above the sea, perfect for watching the sun melt into the horizon while you work through a plate of grilled wreckfish. Book ahead for weekend dinners; half of Jávea races up here for the view once the August heat subsides.

Vegetarians face slim pickings in traditional eateries—expect tortilla, salad and sympathetic shrugs. Pizzeria Antiquary fills the gap with thin, blistered bases and a pesto calzone the size of a rugby ball. They’ll box up leftovers without fuss, handy if you’re self-catering.

When to come, when to stay away

Late May and mid-September deliver the sweetest balance: sea warm enough for swimming, cliffs empty enough for silence, restaurants relaxed enough to linger. June adds daylight hours but also Spanish school trips; July and August bring a population spike that triples weekend traffic. The village fiestas in late July feature paella for 2,000 and firecrackers that rattle windows till 3 am—authentic, yes, but not compatible with early hiking starts.

Winter is quiet, occasionally wild. Storms can whip the cliffs with spray that reaches the road; some tracks become small rivers. Yet the almond blossom in February turns the hills pink-white, and you’ll have Cala Moraig almost to yourself. Bring a windproof and check the forecast—if the tramuntana blows, the sea turns the colour of slate and even the gulls look worried.

The bottom line

El Poble Nou de Benitatxell doesn’t do hand-holding. Roads are steep, buses are mythological, and the best beaches demand sweat equity. What you get in return is a slice of coastline where Spain still feels Spanish, where Sunday lunch is timed by the church bell, not the tour operator, and where the horizon is broken only by cliffs, not cranes. Pack decent shoes, draw cash before you arrive, and the ridge above the Mediterranean will give you its best free show—no filter required.