Burriana

The Arenal beach stretches three kilometres east of Burriana's marina, wide enough that even in August you can claim twenty metres of sand between your towel and the shore. Yet outside festival week, when British teenagers pack the campsite for Arenal Sound, you'll hear more Valencian than English along the promenade. That's the first surprise: a working Spanish seaside town where the fishing boats still land at dawn and the market traders shout prices in dialect, not tourism English.

Sea, Sand and Daily Bread

Burriana's relationship with the Mediterranean is practical, not romantic. The port handles 40% of Spain's citrus exports; forklifts shift pallets of oranges while holidaymakers sip cañas at neighbouring tables. This industrial edge keeps the town honest. The beach bars—chiringuitos—serve espetos of sardines that were swimming that morning, but they also rent out paddleboards to families who've driven down from Valencia for the weekend. Prices stay local: a plate of grilled squid costs €9, a large beer €2.50, roughly half what you'd pay in nearby Benicàssim.

Playa El Arenal's sand is fine-grained and almost flat, ideal for small children and for the long evening walks that Valencians take before dinner. Shade is scarce; only two kiosks hire parasols and they're claimed by 11 a.m., so bring your own or follow the Spanish example and retreat indoors for lunch. Behind the sand, a palm-lined promenade offers level cycling—no hills here, just the slow curve of the bay and, on clear days, the outline of the Columbretes islands thirty kilometres offshore.

Crowds concentrate within 200 metres of the yacht club. Walk ten minutes south-east and the beach empties, even in July. That's also where the last public lavatory shuts at 8 p.m.; the yacht-club facilities stay open until midnight for fifty cents if sunset drinks stretch on.

Oranges, Oil and Gothic Arches

Leave the sea behind and the landscape changes within two streets. Orange groves start at the first roundabout inland, their dark leaves glinting with irrigation jets. Between blossom time (April) and harvest (November) the air carries a honey-citrus scent that perfume makers spend fortunes trying to bottle. A grid of rural lanes—perfectly flat, tarmacked, unsigned—invites cycling. Hire a bike at the marina (€15 a day) and you can pedal 12 km to neighbouring Nules on the Vía Verde, never leaving orchard country, the sea still glinting on your left shoulder.

Back in town, the thirteenth-century Iglesia del Salvador squats at the centre rather than towering over it. The Gothic portal is worth a look—almond-shaped arches, stonework worn buttery smooth—but the real draw is the silence inside once the doors swing shut on market noise. A single €1 coin lights the nave for three minutes, long enough to notice the Baroque chapel screens gilded with American gold shipped through this same port. round the corner, the smaller Ermita de la Misericordia houses a painted wooden Christ whose feet have been rubbed almost featureless by centuries of petitioners.

Archaeology buffs can kill half an hour in the compact municipal museum on Carrer Major. Iberian pottery, Roman fish-salting vats and a cracked Moorish astrolabe explain why people kept settling this flood-plain long before package flights. Labels are Valencian-only, but the attendants usually enjoy translating if you ask.

Eating What the Land and Boat Bring In

Burriana's menus read like shorthand for the surrounding geography: espencat (roasted aubergine and red pepper), arroz a banda (fish-broth paella served without bones so you taste the sea not the labour), and at Christmas, carpaccio of just-pressed orange dressed with local olive oil. Most restaurants cluster round Plaza de la Constitución; the exception is the port zone where family cafés serve whatever the returning boats couldn't sell at auction. Turn up at 6 p.m. and you might find dorada grilled with nothing more than lemon and rock salt for €11.

Vegetarians do better here than in many coastal towns—huerta cooking relies on vegetables anyway—but fussy eaters should note that "ensalada" often comes topped with tinned tuna unless you specify sin atún. Pudding is usually fresh orange quarters; knife work is expected, so don't wait for a spoon.

Market day is Tuesday, not Saturday as in many guidebooks. Arrive before 9 a.m. if you want to park within a ten-minute walk. Stallholders sell knobbly tomatoes still warm from the field and litre cartons of just-squeezed juice that won't pass airport security—drink it there and then.

Festivals, Fireworks and the Other August

The year's rhythm pivots on September's Fiestas de la Misericordia: processions, late-night concerts and fireworks launched from a pontoon so the bangs echo across the bay. Book accommodation early if you fancy joining in; Burrianenses return from Barcelona and Madrid, doubling the population. February brings the Fira de la Taronja, a weekend when the town smells like a giant bowl of marmalade and every schoolchild seems to be carrying an orange-scented helium balloon. June's Sant Joan beach fires are tamer than Valencia city's version—families rather than clubbers—yet still end with the obligatory 2 a.m. swim.

The other August, the one British teenagers know, transforms the Arenal into a pop-up city of 200,000. Festival wristbands get snapped on so tight that removal means cutting—and a €25 replacement fee that many visitors consider a racket. Security is tight, bottled water is confiscated, and the beach suffers: by day three you'll be dodging cigarette butts between DJ sets. If indie music isn't your religion, pick literally any other week.

Getting Here, Getting Round, Getting Honest

Burriana sits 55 km north of Valencia airport. The direct Autos Fernández coach takes seventy minutes and costs €7.50; a hire car gets you there in fifty but remember the €3 daily parking trick—have your ticket stamped at the tourist office beside the marina or you'll pay €1.20 an hour. Trains don't reach the town: the nearest station is in Castellón, twenty minutes away by taxi.

Cash machines inside the Consum supermarket on Calle Santísima Trinidad accept UK cards without surcharge; the ones on the high street add €2 a pop. English is thin on the ground outside festival week—menu translations are patchy, gestures essential. That, ultimately, is Burriana's appeal: a place where Spain still feels like Spain, where the beach is only half the story and the smell of orange blossom drifts all the way down to the docks. Come for the sand, stay for the orchards, and leave before the bass drops in August if you value your sleep.