Callosa d'en Sarrià

The coach parties thunder straight past the turning. They’re bound for the Algar Waterfalls three kilometres away, ticking off “natural pools” on their Benidorm excursion list, while Callosa d’en Sarrià watches from its shelf of almond terraces at 247 m above sea level. Most visitors never realise the water they’re queueing to photograph starts life in these surrounding limestone ranges, or that the fruit in their hotel buffet probably ripened here first. Loquats—nísperos—arrive in British supermarkets in May, bland and bullet-hard; eat one sun-warm from a Callosa orchard and the taste is apricot-meets-mango with a squeeze of citrus.

That brief flavour sums the place up: softer than the coast, sharper than the interior, and largely ignored by outsiders until the blossom turns the valley floor white in late March. Then photographers appear, drone overhead, and vanish before the petals drop.

Orchard air and church bells

The town’s grid of low houses and stone doorways spreads south of the CV-755, the road that links the coast at Altea with the hair-pin climb to Guadalest. Drivers see a blue-tiled dome and a square bell-tower first; the 18th-century church of Sant Joan Baptista sits on a plinth of worn steps, so the bells carry over the roofs at 8 a.m., noon and 9 p.m. whether you’re awake or not. Inside, the retable glitters with gilt wood that restoration teams keep finding under layers of dust. There is no ticket desk, no audio guide—just a woman in the sacristy who may switch on the lights if you smile.

Radiating from the square are three streets wide enough for a mule cart, now lined with cafés that open at dawn for farm workers. Bar Pere spreads its toast with fresh tomato, drizzles olive oil and charges €3.50 including coffee; by 11 a.m. the same terrace fills with retired Britons comparing walking poles and grumbling that the market is “only six stalls”. They’re right—Saturday’s affair shuts at 13:30 and half the traders pack up earlier if the wind turns cold. Still, you can still buy a jar of níspero jam that tastes like bottled spring, or a braided palm frond to take to mother-in-law in Surrey.

Where the water starts

Walk ten minutes downhill past the football ground and the irrigation channels begin. They’re narrow, unlined trenches—acequias—cut by Moorish farmers a millennium ago, still feeding terraces of oranges and lemons in perfectly square plots. The soil is dark, almost black, and smells of leaf mould and iron; look back and the village roofs sit on a green cushion that drops away towards the sea 15 km distant. On clear days you can pick out the tower blocks of Benidorm, tiny as a child’s Lego set, while a kestrel hangs overhead and a farmer burns prunings in the next field.

Follow the acequia south-east and you reach the head of the Algar ravine. Entry is €5 at the kiosk, €2 for children, and the path descends through reeds to a series of calcified pools where the river spills over tufa ledges. British reviews warn the rocks are “like an ice-rink”; they’re not exaggerating—wear the grippiest shoes you own and expect water cold enough to numb ankles in July. Lower pools allow a quick plunge, but coach groups start arriving at 11 a.m., so arrive before 9 or after 5 if you want any chance of a photograph without a neon lilo in it. There are no lockers, no café inside the gates, and the single toilet block is cleaned once a day—plan accordingly.

A roof for the night (or just lunch)

Most day-trippers eat at the restaurant opposite the waterfalls car park, but turn left instead of right and you’ll find Les Fonts on the main road. Its menú del día is €12 mid-week: soup or salad, grilled pork with local almonds, flan that wobbles properly, plus bread and a quarter-litre of wine that tastes better than the carafe price suggests. Portions are huge; the waiter will box leftovers if you ask. Vegetarians get a baked aubergine stack and a raised eyebrow that says “you’re missing the jamón”.

Overnight guests are thin on the ground. There is no Parador, no boutique conversion—just Hostal El Paraíso on the edge of the orchards, rooms €45–55 with balcony and pool that catches the sun until 7 p.m. The owners speak enough English to direct you to the nearest cash machine (inside the Spar supermarket, 300 m away) and will freeze your waterfall water bottles overnight. Motor-home drivers fare better: the free aire beside the industrial estate has twenty bays, grey-water dump, and a view of almond blossom that beats most pay sites on the coast. Bring level blocks—some pitches slope.

When to bother, when to stay away

April is the sweet spot: blossom scent drifts through the streets, daytime temperatures hover around 22 °C, and the waterfalls still run full from spring rain. By August the thermometer can hit 38 °C and the acequias shrink to a trickle; walking anywhere after 1 p.m. feels like wading through warm soup. Winter is quieter, sunny more often than you'd expect, but nights drop to 4 °C and many cafés close on Mondays. If you come then, pack a fleece and expect the church heating to be coin-operated.

Easter brings processions that feel half solemn, half village pantomime—children in lace robes carry candles reinforced with tin foil, brass bands play something between a hymn and a paso doble. June means the fiesta of Sant Joan: fairground rides occupy the football pitch, and locals smuggle bottles of mistela (sweet muscat) into the plaza until 4 a.m. Light sleepers should book elsewhere or join in; earplugs are futile against the fireworks.

The honest verdict

Callosa d’en Sarrià will never compete with the Moorish drama of Guadalest or the beach bars of Calpe, and that is precisely its appeal. You come for an hour, stay for lunch, and leave with sticky fingers and a car that smells of orange blossom. One visit is probably enough—unless you’re the sort who measures holidays by how many mornings you wake to church bells instead of ring-tones.