Murla

The church bell tolls twice at noon, and suddenly every cat in Murla appears on a doorstep. It's feeding time at Ca Murla bar, where María sets out chipped saucers of milk while regulars nurse small glasses of sweet Moscatel. This is daily life at 285 metres above the Costa Blanca – a world away from the beach towels and karaoke bars that most British visitors know.

Murla sits folded into a valley of citrus and almond terraces, fifteen kilometres inland from the coastal motorway. The CV-750 climbs through switchbacks tight enough to make hire-car passengers grip the door handles, then drops you at a village that feels suspended in the 1980s. Houses are still whitewashed with lime, not paint; the bakery opens when the baker arrives, not when the clock says. With 575 permanent residents, anonymity is impossible. Within twenty-four hours the woman who sold you bread will know where you parked and whether you prefer tea or coffee.

The Valley Floor

January brings the first surprise. Almond trees erupt into blossom so pale it photographs like snow, turning the surrounding hills into a sepia postcard. Walkers arrive with serious cameras and quiet voices, following the PR-V 147 footpath that links Murla to neighbouring Parcent. The route is way-marked but barely – look for splashes of yellow paint on dry-stone walls. Six kilometres out-and-back, it delivers views west across the Jalón valley and east to the Mediterranean on clear days. Stout shoes suffice; no need for full hiking kit unless you're continuing to the Coll de Rates, a stiff 400-metre ascent further on.

Orange groves dominate the lower slopes. From November to April the fruit hangs heavy enough to touch passing car roofs, and roadside honesty boxes offer five-kilo bags for two euros. The variety is Navelina – easy to peel, seed-free, sweet enough to make supermarket citrus taste like squash. Farmers don't mind if you photograph, but ask before stepping between rows. Irrigation channels run along terrace edges; one false foot and you'll be ankle-deep in February-cold water.

Upward Steps

Everything in Murla climbs. Streets rise from the central Plaza Mayor at angles that defeat mobility scooters; the eighteenth-century church of San Miguel stands at the top, its bell tower acting as inland lighthouse for drivers approaching on the valley road. Inside, baroque plasterwork frames a side chapel dedicated to Santísimo Cristo de la Agonía, carried through the streets at Easter in silence so complete you hear belt buckles scrape. The 360-degree roof terrace opens on request – ask at the house opposite with the green gate. Donations welcome; views compulsory.

Below the church, the old school has become a cultural centre showing rotating exhibitions of local photography. Entry is free, opening hours erratic. When it's shut, peer through windows at sepia shots of the 1952 almond harvest: men with wicker baskets, women in housecoats, children barefoot among the blossom. Nothing much has changed except the clothes.

What You'll Eat

Ca Murla serves the only fixed-price lunch in the village. €14 buys three courses, bread, and a half-bottle of wine you'll probably finish because there's nothing scheduled afterwards. Monday's menu might be vegetable soup thick with chickpeas, followed by conejo al ajo cabañil – rabbit fried with garlic and bay – finishing with almond cake that crumbles like shortbread. Vegetarian options appear if you ask; the kitchen keeps frozen spinach for emergencies. Coffee comes in glass tumblers, strong enough to make your spoon stand up.

Evenings are different. Both village bars close kitchen at 22:00 sharp; after that it's crisps and olives only. If you need dinner later, drive fifteen minutes to Jalón where Bar La Plaza grills sardines until midnight. Book a taxi back – the mountain road is unlit and Spanish drivers treat centre lines as decoration.

Practicalities

Parking works on a goodwill system. Spaces beside the dry riverbed fit UK-sized estate cars; anything larger should stay on the entrance road. Leave the handbrake off – locals bump-start when they need extra room. Sunday lunchtime everything shuts; fill with petrol and buy milk on Saturday or you'll be drinking black tea until Monday afternoon.

Accommodation inside Murla is scarce. Casa La Vall rents two bedrooms in a restored farmhouse at the village edge – €90 per night including breakfast of fresh orange juice and sobrasada on toast. Otherwise base yourself in Jalón or coastal Calpe and visit for the day. The drive from Benidorm takes forty-five minutes on winding CV-715; sat-nav routinely underestimates by twenty, so don't book a timed church tour you can't reach.

Weather divides the year cleanly. May and October deliver 24°C days perfect for walking; July and August push 36°C by 11 a.m., sending sensible people indoors until evening. Winter nights drop to 4°C – pack a fleece even if the midday sun feels T-shirt warm. Rain arrives suddenly, floods the streets for an hour, then stops. Cheap umbrellas sell for €3 in the village shop; they last exactly one storm.

When to Visit, When to Leave

Come in late January for almond blossom, early April for orange blossom scent drifting through open windows, late September for the fiesta of San Miguel when the village square fills with paella pans the diameter of tractor wheels. Avoid mid-August unless you enjoy sleeping in 30-degree heat – few houses have air-conditioning, and the hum of mosquitoes competes with church bells.

Leave before the second coffee on checkout morning. Murla rewards slow looking: the way sunlight catches iron balcony rails at 16:30, how the bakery smell travels downhill, the moment swifts start screaming above the bell tower. Miss it and you've seen only stones and citrus. Catch it and the valley follows you home – a quiet counterweight to the Costa's noise.