Polop

The first thing you notice is the water. Two hundred and twenty-one brass spouts gush ice-cold spring water into a long stone trough that runs the length of Plaça de les Fonts. Locals queue with five-litre jerrycans, grandparents fill plastic cups for grandchildren, and day-trippers from Benidorm snap photos before realising they can drink it too. This is Polop’s daily theatre: a village of 5,000 people, 262 metres above the Costa Blanca, that still lives with its back to the sea and its face turned firmly towards the mountains.

A town that forgot to fake itself

Polop never bothered with the mock-rustic makeover that blights many inland villages. The cobbled lanes are real, worn smooth by farmers’ boots rather than souvenir-hunters’ espadrilles. Laundry hangs from wrought-iron balconies; elderly men in flat caps still greet the morning with a “bon dia” in Valencian; the loudest noise at 10 a.m. is the clack of dominoes from Bar Central’s terrace. British voices are scarce—though wander into the small estate agency on Carrer Major and you’ll discover half of Lancashire seems to have bought a townhouse here anyway.

The historic centre takes twenty minutes to cross if you don’t stop. You will. Every corner reveals another slice of medieval masonry, another glimpse of almond blossom framing the Peñón de Ifach shimmering in the distance. The 18th-century Iglesia de la Purísima rises from the middle like a neoclassical exclamation mark; climb the bell-tower for €2 (cash only) and you can spot the cranes of Benidorm 12 km away, a reminder that the circus is close should you ever miss it.

Uphill both ways

Behind the church a sign simply says “Castell”. The path tilts immediately. What follows is a ten-minute cardiovascular audition in full sun: stone steps, packed earth, loose gravel, then a final scramble round the cemetery where the graves carry British surnames and fresh flowers. The reward is a 360-degree ledger of Alicante province: to the east, the Mediterranean a flat blue blade; to the north, the fortress wall of the Serra Bèrnia; west and south, a patchwork of almond and olive terraces that glow silver-green after rain. Bring trainers; flip-flops have ended many holidays here with a sprained ankle and a sheepish taxi ride back to the coast.

At the top sits Bar El Castell, essentially a converted garage with panoramic windows and a terrace that charges €2.50 for a caña—half the beach price. Order a plate of cod croquettes: crunchy outside, brandy-laced béchamel within, they taste like comfort food invented by someone who once holidayed in Whitby. Sunset is the busy slot; arrive at 6 p.m. and you’ll share the rail with Dutch cyclists and Swedish pensioners. Stay for dusk and the valley lights twinkle like a spill of loose change.

Water, water everywhere (and not a drop on the beach)

Polop’s relationship with water defines its history. The Font dels Xorros may be the Instagram star, but follow the lane east for two minutes and you’ll find the public washhouse where women scrubbed sheets until the 1970s. The taps still run; on Wednesdays pensioners rinse lettuce while gossiping about tomato prices. It’s domestic, unfiltered, and oddly mesmerising—like watching a black-and-white newsreel in colour.

The lack of coastline forced the village to become self-sufficient centuries ago. Moorish engineers diverted springs into irrigation channels; the terraces you hike past still use the same gravity-fed system. Almonds remain the cash crop. Visit in late February and the slopes explode into pink-and-white blossom; the council runs free guided walks (register at the tiny tourist office beside the town hall) that end with hot chocolate and the local mistela liqueur—think sweet sherry with an apricot kick.

Legs, bikes and stomachs

Serious walkers treat Polop as a launch pad for the Serra Bèrnia. The classic eight-kilometre loop to the 16th-century Fort de Bèrnia starts six kilometres up a concrete track signposted “Bernia”. Without a car you’re looking at a 90-minute road march before the fun begins; taxis from the village charge a fixed €18. The fort itself is a ruin, but the views stretch from Calpe rock to the skyscrapers of Benidorm, and the return contour path offers shade from Aleppo pines that smell of rosemary after rain. Mid-summer starts need to be early; the route is exposed and the Guardia Civil occasionally fine hikers they find on the mountain after 11 a.m. when the fire-risk semaphore hits red.

Mountain-bikers have discovered the web of farm tracks that fan out towards Callosa and Guadalest. A popular 25 km circuit threads two river gorges and 600 metres of climbing; download the GPX at the tourist office or hire a guide (€45 half-day, bike included) from the shop opposite the pharmacy. Road cyclists, meanwhile, use Polop as a halfway coffee stop on the legendary Confrides climb—12 km of hairpins that tops out at 1,100 m and reduces grown men to quiet sobbing.

Hungry? The weekday menú del día in family-run Casa Mira costs €14 and delivers three courses, bread, drink and coffee. Expect lentil stew thick enough to stand a spoon in, followed by rabbit braised in bay and garlic. Vegetarians survive on escalivada (roasted aubergine and peppers) and the town’s obsession with almonds surfaces in desserts—try the tarta de almendra, a moist cross between Bakewell and Castilian tart. Evening dining is low-key; most kitchens close at 22:00 sharp, so the expat trick is to order an extra portion at lunch and reheat it later with a bottle of locally brewed Serra Bèrnia ale.

When to come, how to leave

Spring and autumn give you 23 °C days and cool nights; winter can be 8 °C at midday with a tramontana wind that slices through fleece. August tops 35 °C and the village pool (€3 day ticket) turns into a toddlers’ soup. Parking is free beside the church, but the Wednesday market fills every bay before 09:00—arrive early or walk up from the sports ground on the bypass. The last bus to Alicante leaves at 19:30; miss it and a taxi costs €60, more than most apartment rentals.

Polop won’t change your life. It has no castle dungeons to explore, no Michelin stars, no beach. What it does have is the rare knack of letting you peer over the edge of modern Spain without falling into a theme-park version of the past. Fill your bottle at the fountain, climb the hill, eat rabbit under a trellis of drying almonds—and remember to descend before the streetlights hum on. Down on the coast the karaoke bars are warming up, but up here the loudest sound is still the click of irrigation water hitting dry earth.