Altea

The First Sight That Makes You Brake

The N-322 hugs the coast like a balcony rail, then suddenly Altea appears. White houses cascade down a hillside, and above them all, two blue domes catch the light like polished gemstones. It's the church of Nuestra Señora del Consuelo, and it's the reason most drivers impulsively yank the steering wheel towards the nearest exit. This isn't another concrete Costa Blanca resort—it's a proper Spanish hill-town that happens to have a sea view.

Altea sits 61 metres above the Mediterranean, high enough that the air smells of pine as well as salt. The old town, known locally as El Fornet, is essentially a medieval fortress that grew upwards instead of outwards. What began as a walled settlement to deter Barbary pirates is now a maze of whitewashed lanes where geraniums drip from wrought-iron balconies and every second doorway seems to hide an art studio.

Cobbles, Ceramics and the Thursday Scramble

The climb from sea level to the church square takes twelve minutes if you're fit, twenty if you're carrying shopping, and half an hour if you stop to photograph the ceramic house numbers that double as miniature paintings. The stones underfoot have been polished smooth by centuries of fishermen's boots and, more recently, by Scandinavian retirees in sensible sandals. (Norwegian is indeed the lingua franca of half the café tables; Brits arrived later, which explains why the craft beers are competitively priced but decent builder's tea remains elusive.)

Thursday mornings transform the sleepy plaza into the Costa Blanca's most civilised market. From 10 o'clock, ceramicists from the surrounding valleys lay out indigo plates that mirror the church domes, while silversmiths unpack jewellery inspired by the fishing nets stacked on the beach below. Tour coaches from Benidorm disgorge their cargo at 11:15 sharp; savvy visitors arrive earlier, buy the ceramic pomegranate they didn't know they needed, and retreat to the arcade bar for a café con leche before the human traffic jam begins.

A Shoreline That Demands Respect

Altea's relationship with the sea is practical rather than pampered. The main beach, Cap Blanch, is a 2-kilometre sweep of pebbles that glint like loose change. Forget the soft sand of nearby Albir—here you need jelly-shoes or the patience of a hermit to reach swimming depth without wincing. The reward is water so clear that snorkellers can count the stripes on passing barracuda without getting their hair wet. No-one peddles parasols or peddloes; instead, local families bring striped mattresses sold for €6 in the Chinese bazaar by the tram stop, and lunch is often a baguette stuffed with tuna beluga (onion, tomato and oily fish) from the bakery on Carrer Sant Miquel.

Round the headland, the Mascarat coves are smaller, pebblier still, and frequented by paddle-boarders who launch from the yacht club's slipway. The clubhouse does a respectable paella de marisco for €18, but arrive before 1 pm or the rice crust will have been claimed by earlier arrivals.

When the Sun Drops, the Town Wakes

Spanish villages traditionally roll up the pavements after siesta; Altea merely lowers the tempo. By 7 pm the church square fills with easels as evening art classes sketch the domes against a bruised sky, while down in the marina, yacht crews swap engine parts for cold estrellas. The smartest move is to split the difference: climb halfway back up the hill to the viewing terrace of La Mascarada, order a gintònic made with local Mare gin, and watch the lights of fishing boats flick on one by one. Last orders are taken at 1 am, by which time the lanes smell of jasmine and the only sound is the click-clack of the antique street lamps swaying in the sea breeze.

Walks, Walls and the Almond-Blossom Shortcut

Behind the town, the Sierra de Bernia rises to 1,128 metres, creating a natural windbreak that keeps Altea two degrees cooler than Benidorm in August. A way-marked path leaves from the top of Carrer Major, switch-backing through abandoned almond terraces where blossom arrives in the first week of February—three weeks earlier than the UK equivalent. Allow 90 minutes to reach the ridge; the panorama takes in Ibiza on clear days, and the descent passes an 18th-century ice house carved into the rock where locals once stored fish before the fridge arrived.

If that sounds too energetic, simply follow the medieval walls that still girdle the western flank. They peter out into a paved lane that delivers you to Portal Vell, the old gateway now flanked by a tiny shrine to the Virgin and a bench occupied by octogenarians who rate every passing tourist's footwear out of ten. Trainers score eight; flip-flops earn a theatrical sigh.

The Price of Peace—and When It Triples

Altea's refusal to build high-rise hotels means beds are limited and prices reflect the scarcity. A double room in a converted fisherman's house runs €120–€140 in May or late September, when daytime temperatures hover around 24 °C and the evening air carries a jacket-requiring chill. August inflates the same room to €220, queues for restaurant tables stretch to 45 minutes, and the Thursday craft market feels like Oxford Street on Boxing Day. British school-holiday weeks are marginally better than Spanish ones, but only just.

Getting here without a car is refreshingly straightforward: the ALSA airport bus from Alicante to Benidorm costs €8.50 and takes 45 minutes; change to the modern tram (€1.50) and Altea's palm-lined stop appears 25 minutes later. Driving saves 20 minutes but deposits you in the one-way labyrinth that spirals towards the old town. Ignore the sat-nav's pleas to "turn left" and head straight for the signed Parking La Marina—a multi-storey that charges €2 per hour and sells fold-up walking sticks for €8 at the ticket machine, a tacit admission of the gradient that awaits.

Monday Mornings and Other Minor Tragedies

Every paradise has its price, and Altea's is Monday. The artists' quarter officially closes for maintenance; galleries lock their doors, the bakery shutters slam at noon, and even the church reduces its opening hours to Mass times. Plan a beach day instead, or hop on the tram two stops south to Altea la Vella where a single bar remains open to serve tostada and Marmite to expats who couldn't face another slice of tomato-rubbed bread. The sea is still there, the jelly-fish are usually not, and the pebbles feel marginally softer when there's no-one else to hear you yelp.