Benidorm

The first thing that unsettles new arrivals is the skyline: a wall of glass and concrete rising straight from a beach that, until the 1950s, was still mending nets. Thirty-plus storeys cast stripes of shade across Levante’s sand before 9 a.m.; by midday the tower shadows retreat like tides, revealing sun-beds regimented towel-to-towel. Benidorm’s trick is to be simultaneously familiar and utterly foreign—Fish-and-Chip Alley one minute, paella smoke curling from a back-street vent the next.

The beach that launched a thousand flights

Levante stretches two kilometres of fine, gently shelving sand. Blue Flag status is renewed each year, yet the real flag is the Union Jack on every third brolly. Lifeguards whistle in Spanish, but the tannoy also yells “Oi, no inflatables past the ropes!” in unmistakable Essex. Sun-beds lock with a €1 coin; arrive after 10 a.m. in July and you’ll queue. Poniente, the western bay, is longer, wider and favoured by Spanish families and pension-heavy couples who traded karaoke for a newspaper. The promenade here is newer, the sand slightly coarser, the water marginally cleaner because fewer people stir it up. Between the two crescents sits the Balcón del Mediterráneo, a white stone viewing platform built over medieval castle foundations—everyone’s default selfie spot and the quickest way to grasp the town’s geography: sea front, tower blocks, hills behind.

What the brochures don’t mention about the nights

Evening entertainment starts at toddler hour: tribute acts in hotel lounges doing Ed Sheeran covers to parents clutching plastic tumblers of sangria. By 9 p.m. the cabaret belt on Calle Gerona awakens—Elvis in a polyester jumpsuit, ABBA with Spanish accents, drag queens lip-syncing to “Bohemian Rhapsody” while passing round a bucket for tips. Entry is free; the business model is £3 pints served faster than you can say “last orders”. Stag groups in matching T-shirts weave between mobility scooters whose silver-haired drivers know the words to every Neil Diamond song. It’s loud, occasionally lewd, yet oddly good-natured: bouncers wear earpieces but rarely need them. If you want glamour, Benidorm Palace sells dinner-and-show tickets for €55; the champagne is Catalan cava and the dancers are Brazilian, but nobody quibbles when the lights dim and the feathers come out.

Eating: from greaseproof paper to Michelin dreams

British breakfasts—eggs, beans, two rashers—cost €4.50 on the strip and arrive quicker than in most UK cafés. Walk three streets inland, however, and Bar Casa Modesto still serves gambas al ajillo at marble tables older than most tourists. Rice dishes matter here: arroz a banda (fish broth, no meat), arroz del señoret (shellfish pre-shelled for lazy diners), and the Valencian classic paella cooked over orange-wood fires. A decent pan for two starts at €18; add €6 if you want it delivered to the beach. The Wednesday and Sunday market behind Hotel Helios sells €2 bags of loquats, counterfeit Ray-Bans and, if you ask quietly, vacuum-packed saffron that may or may not be the real thing. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and patatas bravas; vegans should head to the Old Town’s Plant Revolution where the owner, a former London chef, will lecture you on turmeric while you wait for oat-milk horchata.

Up the hill and away from the hullabaloo

Behind the towers the ground rises sharply to the Sierra Helada, a protected ridge of fossilised dunes and Aleppo pine. The footpath to the lighthouse at l’Albir is paved for the first 3 km, wheelchair-friendly and shaded at dawn. After that it narrows, skirts 300-metre cliffs, and delivers views that make the high-rise cluster look like architectural Airfix. Take water; the only kiosk is at the start and it charges €2.50 for a 50 cl bottle. Mountain bikers use the service track that zigzags behind Terra Mítica theme park; road cyclists head inland to Coll de Rates, 25 km of steady climb where pro teams train in February while Britain drizzles. Summer hikers should start before 8 a.m.; the sun is brutal and rescue helicopters are expensive.

Rainy-day economics and how to beat them

Benidorm’s micro-climate averages 3 000 sunshine hours a year, but when the clouds arrive they empty Noah-style. Hotels pipe music into windowless bars, shops slash prices on inflatable lilos, and the indoor market under Avenida de la Comunidad Europea fills with pensioners comparing insurance payouts. Terra Mítica, Aqualandia and Mundomar all sell half-day tickets after 3 p.m.; queues shorten and the UV index drops. A better refuge is the town archive inside the Old Town library—free, air-conditioned, and full of black-and-white photos proving the beach once held more fishing boats than banana boats. If you’re genuinely skint, ride the tram to Altea (€2.45, 18 minutes) and wander the cobbled lanes; the return journey delivers a coastal panorama that even Benidorm sceptics photograph.

Getting here, getting home, getting around

Alicante airport is 46 km south. The L9 shuttle bus costs €9.45 and takes 55 minutes; taxi drivers quote €65 on the meter but agree €70 fixed in summer queues. Pre-booked minibuses drop at your hotel door but may detour through five others first—journey time can double. Once in resort everything is flat; wheelchair users rate Benidorm among Spain’s easiest towns. Buses to Valencia or Alicante leave from the terminus by the indoor market; the €19 express to Valencia includes Wi-Fi that actually works. If you hire a car, park beneath Plaza de la Constitución—shade all day, €1.20 an hour, and you’re two minutes from tapas alley. Petrol is cheaper on the industrial estate by the motorway; garages on the beachfront charge 15 cents extra.

When to jump ship

August is a sauna wrapped in nightclub bass. November brings the patronal fiestas—fireworks, processions and free street concerts that feel oddly authentic because the Brits haven’t worked out the timetable yet. January is pensioner republic: average daytime 16 °C, €25 hotel rooms, and happy-hour cava at €1.50. Easter packs Spanish families; stag parties relocate to Magaluf for cheaper beer. The secret season is late September—sea still warm, flights half-price, tribute bands on top form because they’ve rehearsed all summer. Whatever month you choose, accept that Benidorm is not Spain-lite; it is its own brazen, unapologetic hybrid. You might leave vowing never to return, but the departure lounge bar already sells cans of Estrella for the plane—proof the place knows how to keep a grip on you, whether you admire the view or simply can’t look away.