Orxeta

The church bell in Orxeta strikes eleven and the only other sound is a tractor coughing to life somewhere below the terrace. From this high pavement opposite Bar Gregori you can see straight down the valley to the Amadorio reservoir, a sheet of pewter today under low February cloud. Twenty minutes behind you lie the high-rises of Benidorm; up here, the air smells of wood-smoke and wet almond blossom. The contrast is deliberate: most people reach the village precisely because they have had enough of the coast.

Orxeta sits at 177 m above sea-level, low enough for citrus but high enough to escape the humidity that fogs camera lenses in Villajoyosa. Dry-stone walls divide the lower slopes into a mosaic of almond and olive terraces; higher up, the land reverts to rosemary, thyme and the occasional pine. The municipality officially numbers 840 souls, though that figure doubles when the weekend houses fill up with families from Alicante. Even then, the place feels half-asleep, and that is the attraction.

There is no single “sight” to tick off. The Iglesia de la Asunción, rebuilt in the eighteenth century after its medieval predecessor cracked, stands at the top of a short, stepped lane. The stone is the colour of toasted bread, the tower tiled in faded green that looks almost black in late afternoon shade. Inside, the only ostentation is a gilded altarpiece rescued from a fire in 1936; the rest is whitewash, heavy pews and the faint smell of paraffin from the hanging lamps. Locals still use the porch as a meeting point: if you want to know which walking path is open after last week’s rain, ask here rather than Google.

Below the church the village tumbles down a narrow ridge. Houses are staggered so every roof terrace catches the sunset; front doors open straight onto lanes wide enough for a donkey but not a Range Rover. Pink bougainvillea has been trained over most of the telephone wires, and at least one resident keeps a canary in a cage hung beneath the eaves. The only formal monument besides the church is the stone-built lavadero, the communal wash-house fed by a spring. It was restored, not prettified, so you can still see the sloping slabs where women knelt to scrub and the separate basin set aside for rinsing chickpeas. A brass plaque gives the 1953 water tariff: two céntimos a bucket, payable to the parish council on Saturday night.

Walk five minutes past the last street lamp and the tarmac gives way to a camino of packed earth and almond shells. Signed as PR-V-147, the loop east to the Bella reservoir takes two hours at British-strolling speed. Trainers are adequate; boots are overkill unless you plan to continue all the way to Sella. The path follows an irrigation ditch, then climbs onto a ridge where the breeze carries the resinous scent of crushed rosemary. In late January the whole hillside flickers white and pink with blossom; by early March the petals lie like confetti on the track and the first bees sound like distant chain-saws. There is no café, no ticket booth, no selfie-frame—just a stone bench commemorating a village doctor who “liked this view”.

Back in the village, hunger is best tackled at the only bar that keeps regular hours. Bar Gregori opens at 07:00 for field hands and stays open until the last brandy is drunk, usually around 22:30. Chicken nuggets are handmade from breast meat, rolled in yesterday’s bread and cost sixty cents each; they have converted more than one British teenager to the idea of Spanish tapas. Ask for the cabra frito—cubes of young goat’s cheese quickly fried and served with a drizzle of local honey. The flavour is milky rather than goaty, a gentle introduction for anyone still scarred by over-ripe French chèvre. Wash it down with a Fanta limón that arrives as a chilled bottle of sparkling water and a whole lemon crushed in a glass—no artificial after-taste, just citrus that makes you realise what the stuff is meant to taste like.

If you insist on a proper lunch, the village social club (signposted Casino) opens its dining room on Saturdays and feast days. The menu is chalked on a blackboard: gazpacho manchego (not the cold soup but a gamey stew of rabbit and flatbread), arroz al horno baked with pork rib and black pudding, and miel de caña poured over sweet potato for pudding. Three courses, water and a quarter-litre of house red cost €14; they will not accept cards, so bring cash and patience—the waitress is also the goalkeeper for the village five-a-side team and may dash out mid-service if training finishes early.

Orxeta’s calendar still follows the land. On 3 February the priest of the Asunción blesses loaves, almonds and the odd tractor during the fiesta de San Blas; the bread is afterwards hung in porches to guard against sore throats. August brings the main fiestas: brass bands, foam parties for toddlers, and a paella cooked in a pan two metres wide that uses 25 kg of rice and an undisclosed amount of rabbit. Visitors are welcome to join the queue, but you must bring your own plate and spoon—plastic is frowned upon. September, not October, marks the local “vendimia” when the lone vineyard on the north slope is hand-picked. The resulting wine is dark, sweet and usually reserved for family tables; if you are offered a glass, polite refusal is taken as personal insult.

Getting here requires wheels. There is no bus, no train, and the nearest taxi rank is in Villajoyosa 18 km away. From Alicante airport take the A-70 north, exit at Callosa d’en Sarrià and follow the CV-770 for twelve minutes of hair-pin bends. The final stretch is smooth but narrow; meet a lorry and one of you must reverse. Park on the main road—side streets were designed when cars had the footprint of a donkey. If you are staying on the coast, allow 35 minutes from Benidorm in good traffic, twice that if the French school holidays empty onto the AP-7.

Come in spring or late autumn. Summer is furnace-hot and the village tilts south-west, offering almost no shade between 13:00 and 17:30. Winter can be surprisingly sharp: almond trees need chill hours to fruit, and night temperatures occasionally dip to 3 °C. The compensation is light the colour of pale honey and terraces warm enough for coffee outside at ten in the morning. Whichever season you choose, plan for the middle of the day to be quiet. Everything except the bar shutters between 14:00 and 17:30; even the dogs seem to observe siesta.

Leave time for the short drive to the Amadorio dam. The road hugs the eastern shore and gives a different angle: the village now a white line on the ridge, the sea a silver thread beyond the coastal plain. On weekdays you might share the viewpoint with one fisherman and a cat; at weekends half of Alicante arrives with paddleboards and Bluetooth speakers. Either way, the water is too cold for comfortable swimming outside July and August, and there are no lifeguards, no loos, no ice-cream van—just a concrete slipway and a sign warning that the level can drop three metres overnight.

Orxeta will not keep you busy for a week. It is not a “base for exploring the Costa Blanca” unless your idea of exploration ends with a beer on a sun-warmed wall. What it offers is a pause: a place where the bread van still toots its horn at 11:00, where the church bell marks time more reliably than mobile signal, and where the loudest noise at night is the wind rattling a loose persiana. Spend a morning, walk the ridge, eat something fried, buy a bag of almonds from the honesty box outside number 42. Then drive back down the hill and rejoin the motorway, already tasting the dust of blossom on your tongue and wondering why the Costa ever seemed necessary.