Alfarp

The morning freight train to Valencia rattles past at 06:47 exactly. From the single platform at Xirivella-Alfarp halt you can watch the lights of the village blink off, one by one, as the sun climbs over rows of navel-orange trees. It is a twenty-minute walk from here to Alfarp proper—no taxi rank, no bus waiting, just the scent of orange blossom and the knowledge that you have already left the coast far behind.

A grid of acequias, not souvenir shops

Alfarp sits 35 m above sea level on the flood-plain of the river Magro, 40 km inland from Valencia airport. The land is dead-flat; the only vertical punctuation is the 28 m bell-tower of the parish church of Sant Miquel. Whitewashed houses line four straight streets that meet at a modest plaça where locals still play cards under a mulberry planted in 1897. There is no medieval quarter to speak of, no castle you can wander into unannounced—just a working grid of acequias (irrigation canals) that pre-date the Reconquest and still dictate when farmers may open their sluice gates.

Walk south along Carrer Major and the pavement simply stops. Beyond it, a gravel farm track disappears between citrus groves whose irrigation ditches run higher than the path itself; step carelessly and you’ll fill your shoes with water that has travelled 60 km from the Turia river. In April the air is thick with azahar—orange-blossom honey—while in October you’ll hear the mechanical hum of picking machines working flood-lit shifts to beat the forecast rain.

What you’ll actually find to look at

The church is open from 08:00 until the bells ring for the Angelus at noon; after that it is locked unless the sacristan is tending his vegetable plot opposite. Inside, a 1765 Neoclassical retable frames a statue of Saint Michael trampling a cardboard dragon repainted every decade. The colours are brighter than the museum-piece guides suggest, because the parish still raises funds for upkeep with summer bingo nights.

Two streets east, the Castell d’Alfarp is less a castle than a fortified farmhouse. Guided visits (free, Spanish only) take place on the first and third Saturday of each month at 11:30; you must put your name on a sheet taped to the ayuntamiento door by Friday 14:00. The guide, usually the mayor’s cousin, will show you a 1497 cistern and a Roman tile re-used as a windowsill. Expect no gift shop, but you may leave with a handful of loose saffron crocus corms handed out to encourage planting.

Between these two landmarks the village performs its daily routine: women in housecoats swill down pavements, teenagers revolt against tradition by ordering soya milk in the single café, and the baker rushes out at 13:55 to deliver baguettes to the school before the sierra-style closing-time bell rings. It is ordinary, and that is why visitors with a camera are advised to ask before pointing lenses at 80-year-olds peeling broad beans on their doorsteps.

Eating: whatever the garden dictates

There are three places to eat. Bar Casa Roque does a three-course menú del día for €12 (wine included) featuring whatever the proprietor’s brother-in-law has brought in from his garden—expect artichoke gratin in March, tomato-and-tuna salad in July, and cardoon stew when the first frost sweetens the stalks. Saturday is paella day; you must reserve before 11:00 or they will not buy enough rabbit. At Barallo, younger owners serve toasted artisan bread topped with sobrasada and local orange marmalade—delicious, but the coffee machine hisses so loudly conversation stalls every 90 seconds. The third option is the weekend barbecue run by the football club opposite the cemetery; chicken thighs €3, plastic chairs, paper plates, and a soundtrack of 1990s Brit-pop courtesy of a former Erasmus student who never quite went home.

Vegetarians should note that “ensalada” still arrives with tuna unless you specify otherwise; vegans will end up eating bread, olives, and the oranges they can pick from public trees at the edge of town. On the plus side, those oranges have never seen a supermarket chiller.

Walking routes without altitude

Alfarp’s terrain is so flat that OS-map addicts feel cheated, but the signed 7-km Ruta de les Sèquies rewards with a different kind of detail. Follow the green-and-white waymarks clockwise and you will pass a 16th-century aqueduct no taller than a garden wall, a 1950s British-built sluice gate labelled “Made in Manchester”, and a field where sheep wear bells tuned to different notes so the shepherd can locate them by ear. The path is a farm track; after rain your trainers will acquire the famous reddish loam that keeps Valencia’s oranges so juicy. Take water—there is no bar between kilometre 2 and kilometre 6, and the lone roadside vending machine is often unplugged to save electricity.

Cyclists can extend the loop south-east to the ruined rail bridge at Alberic, a 22-km round trip on tarmac so smooth you will swear it was laid yesterday. Mountain-bikers will be bored; bring a hybrid or a gravel bike and you can nip between irrigation ditches where cars simply do not fit.

When the village lets its hair down

Fires, mostly. Fallas in March means a single infant-school effigy wheeled out on the 16th, stuffed with fireworks and torched at midnight while the fire brigade hoses down adjacent orange trees. September’s fiestas patronales revolve around a paella contest in the street: each team must cook outdoors using wood cut from their own groves, and judges deduct points for smoke blackening the rice. If you volunteer to stir you will be handed an apron and a glass of mistela; refusal is taken as Protestant standoffishness. Easter processions are short—three pasos, one band, done in 45 minutes—yet the brass ensemble rehearses every night for six weeks, so light sleepers should book elsewhere (which, given the absence of hotels, means staying in Alzira or Valencia).

Getting there, staying over, getting out

The fastest route from the UK is a two-hour flight to Valencia, then a hire car up the A-7 and CV-50. Parking in Alfarp is free and usually within 100 m of wherever you want to be. Without a car, take the C-2 cercanías train to Xirivella-Alfarp (change at Valencia-Norte; total 55 min). Trains are hourly except on Sundays when a two-hour gap appears between 11:00 and 13:00. The station has no ticket machine; buy a €3.20 Bonometro on your phone before boarding or risk a €50 fine from inspectors who board at Alberic.

Accommodation is the deal-breaker. Alfarp itself offers no hotels, no pensiones, not even a room above the bar. Closest beds are in Alzira (20 min drive), an agricultural town whose hotels cater to fertiliser salesmen, or back in Valencia city if you crave tapas trails and air-con. Campers sometimes pitch discreetly among the groves; local farmers tolerate it for one night if you ask, but do not light fires—the irrigation water carries fines as well as silt.

The bottom line

Come for the orange blossom and the illusion that you have slipped behind a curtain where time has slowed, but remember the curtain is fraying: satellite dishes bloom on every roof, and the weekly market now includes a stall selling €5 phone covers. Alfarp will not astonish with spectacle; instead it offers a half-day of gentle curiosity, a plate of just-picked broad beans, and the realisation that Valencia’s famous coastline is only a 40-minute drive away yet feels irrelevant to the people who live here. Visit in late morning, stay for lunch, walk the irrigation loop, and catch the 17:05 train back to the city before the afternoon heat turns the gravel paths into frying pans.