Catadau

The church bells strike eleven as three elderly men shuffle cards beneath the plane trees in Plaza Mayor. Nothing else moves. Catadau's single traffic light blinks amber to an empty road, and the only sound beyond the card table is the low hum of bees working the orange blossoms that press in from every side. This is the Ribera Alta at its most honest: a working citrus belt where tourism feels almost accidental.

A Town That Runs on Citrus Time

Forty kilometres inland from Valencia, at a mere ninety-four metres above sea level, Catadau sits in that sweet spot where the Mediterranean still whispers but the Meseta's oven heat hasn't quite arrived. The 2,900 inhabitants (swelling to perhaps 3,200 when university students flee Valencia for cheaper rents) measure the year not by calendar months but by what the trees are doing. January brings pruning, March the heady azahar perfume, October the heavy haul of navel oranges. Between these markers, life drifts by with the slow certainty of irrigation water running along 800-year-old Moorish channels.

The town's silhouette is defined by the tower of San Miguel Arcángel, a sturdy parish church whose oldest stones date from the 1400s but whose bulk was rebuilt after the 1748 earthquake. The baroque portal is worth a glance—notice how the sculptor squeezed an entire pomegranate harvest into one capital—but the real detail is the weather vane, a wrought-iron angel that locals claim spins anti-clockwise when rain is due. Meteorology by folklore: it works often enough that farmers still glance skyward before switching on the automatic sprinklers.

What You Actually See When You Wander

Start in Plaza Mayor, a rectangular space that feels more like a village afterthought than grand civic statement. The town hall, built in 1973, displays that particular Spanish talent for making concrete look temporary. Opposite, Casa de la Cultura opens weekday mornings only; inside, one room charts Catadau's transition from Moorish alquería to modern co-operative farming. Labels are Valencian-first, English-never, but the photos of 1920s orange crates bound for Covent Garden need no translation.

From here, any street heading north-east will funnel you into the old quarter within three minutes. Cobbles are uneven, wheelie bins abound, and the medieval layout survives mainly as a traffic-calming device. Peer through the iron gates of Calle Mayor 27 to spot a proper Andalusian-style courtyard—tiles from Manises, date palm, dripping fountain—now shared by four apartments whose washing lines criss-cross like bunting. Further along, number 41's doorway carries the faint coat of arms of the Ribera family, 17th-century landholders who bankrolled the irrigation channels still feeding the groves today.

The residential calm shatters briefly at 14:00 when Colegio Público Miguel Hernández disgorges its pupils. For fifteen minutes the narrow lanes echo with rucksacks and football chatter, then silence returns. By 15:00 even the dogs have settled.

The Groves That Pay the Bills

Catadau's edge is where the settlement becomes business. Follow Avenida de la Constitución past the petrol station—cheapest diesel for twenty kilometres—and asphalt surrenders to packed-earth tracks that slice between orange walls. These aren't postcard orchards with romantic spacing; trees are planted tight, pruned flat-topped to maximise fruit and minimise shade. Walkers are tolerated provided they stick to the wider paths signed as "ruta de les séquies" (irrigation-ditch route). The circuit south to Alberic is level, five kilometres out and back, and passes a tiny 18th-century chapel dedicated to Sant Blai, patron of throat complaints. Local custom demands you leave an orange on the stone sill; the fruit will be gone by morning, claimed either as offering or breakfast.

Cyclists do better here than hikers. The old Xàtiva railway line has been asphalted into a green-way: traffic-free, arrow-straight, perfect for families whose idea of adventure is a hire bike with questionable brakes. Bring water—shade exists only where eucalyptus was planted as a wind-break in the 1960s, and those trees are literally dying of thirst.

Eating (and Drinking) Like Somebody's Cousin

British expectations of tapas crawl will be disappointed; Catadau does set-menu lunch and little else. El Mesón de Pep, halfway down Calle San Miguel, serves three courses plus a half-bottle of house wine for €12. The €14 upgrade buys you coffee and a shot of mistela, the local moscatel liqueur that tastes like alcoholic marmalade. Expect grilled pork, chips, and a tomato-onion salad sharp enough to make your tongue tingle. Vegetarians get tortilla—always tortilla. Pudding is usually crema catalana with a skin thick enough to play frisbee.

For lighter bites, the bakery opposite the health centre opens at 06:00 and sells fartons, elongated iced buns designed for dipping in horchata. By 11:00 they're sold out; by 11:05 the owner is pulling down the shutter for siesta. Coffee comes from Bar Niza on the plaza: bitter, strong, 90 cents if you stand, €1.20 if you grab one of the plastic chairs outside. Card payments remain science fiction—bring cash, preferably small notes. The lone Santander branch locks its doors at 14:00 and doesn't reopen until Tuesday if Monday is a festival.

Timing Your Arrival, Managing Your Exit

Spring visits reward the nose: mid-March blossom turns every breeze into a citrus diffuser, and temperatures sit in the low twenties—perfect for cycling without arriving drenched. Autumn means fruit-heavy branches and the Moors & Christians parade in neighbouring Alzira, whose fireworks you can watch from Catadau's southern groves without the crowds. Summer is brutal: 35 °C by 10:00, irrigation canals breeding tiger mosquitoes, everything shuttered between 14:00 and 18:00. Winter is mild but bleak—grey mist off the marshy Júcar, pruned trees like so many upturned brooms, and an uncanny number of closed-for-reform bars.

Getting here without a car requires patience and a working knowledge of Valencia's transport zones. Take the C-3 Cercanías train towards Xirivella, switch to TRAM line 2, then board the rattling diesel train towards Llíria that still uses 1980s rolling stock. The whole journey clocks in at 55–65 minutes and costs €4.20—bargain by UK standards, but note the Sunday timetable collapses to two services each way. Miss the 19:07 and you're spending the night; Catadau's solitary hostal has six rooms above a bar whose karaoke machine starts at midnight.

The Honest Verdict

Catadau will never feature on a "Top Ten Villages" list, and the locals seem perfectly happy about that. What it offers is a glimpse of an agricultural routine that predates package tourism and may well outlive it. Come with modest hopes: a quiet plaza, a decent lunch, a walk between scented trees. Leave before the bells strike twelve and you might catch the 12:15 train back to Valencia, already planning a return trip in blossom season—or wondering why you bothered. Either reaction feels entirely appropriate.