Montroy

The honey museum opens at ten o'clock sharp, but the curator might not. WhatsApp first—it's the Spanish way. This is Montroy, a village where 3,200 residents live among 50,000 citrus trees, and the only queue you'll join is for Saturday morning's market stall selling turrón that's harder than British toffee and twice as addictive.

Thirty-five minutes southwest of Valencia city, Montroy sits at 110 metres above sea level—not high enough for mountain drama, but just enough to catch the breeze that carries orange blossom scent across the Ribera Alta. The terrain rolls gently here, unlike the flat coastal plain. Almond terraces climb the lower slopes; navel orange groves spread across the valley floor. It's walking country rather than hiking territory—proper boots unnecessary, but don't attempt it in flip-flops unless you fancy explaining to a Valencia A&E why you've twisted an ankle amongst the irrigation ditches.

The village itself spills down from a small ridge. Modern estates of white-rendered villas creep along the CV-425, but the original centre holds its ground around Plaza Mayor. Here, the 18th-century church tower serves as both compass point and mobile-phone mast—look up and you'll spot the antennae sprouting from San Pedro Apóstol's belfry. Inside, the baroque altarpiece survived the Civil War by sheer luck; the pockmarks on the southern wall tell a different story.

The Honey Trap and Other Small Pleasures

The Valencian Museum of Honey occupies a converted farmhouse on Calle San Francisco. Children get wooden sticks for dipping; adults receive a rapid-fire explanation of why Montroy's rosemary honey crystallises faster than the orange-blossom variety. The gift shop stocks 500-gram jars at €8—half airport prices, twice supermarket quality. Don't photograph the antique extractor unless you fancy a lecture on 1950s centrifugal force.

Beyond honey, attractions require a slower eye. Notice how the 19th-century town hall's façade uses local marlstone—soft enough for carving, porous enough to show decades of pollution in vertical black stripes. Spot the medieval grain store hidden behind modern steel shutters on Calle Nueva. Count the number of houses whose ground floors have been converted into garages; it's the most accurate census of Montroy's commuting population, most heading daily to Valencia's technology parks.

The agricultural calendar dictates rhythm here. Between December and April, the citrus harvest brings articulated lorries thundering through narrow streets at dawn. March means Fallas—giant papier-mâché figures built in vacant lots, burned on the 19th amid fireworks that rattle windows in Cheste, eight kilometres distant. June's fiestas honour Saint Peter with processions that pause outside Bar Central for vermouth refills. August empties the village as residents flee to coastal relatives; only the polideportivo's swimming pool remains lively, charging €3 for day entry and selling crisps that taste of 1987.

Eating Without English

Montroy's restaurants don't translate menus because they've never needed to. Bar Central does a decent turkey breast glazed with local honey—mild enough for conservative palates, interesting enough to justify the €12 price tag. The coca de muntanyeta resembles a thin-crust pizza topped with slow-cooked onion and tinned tuna; order it by the slice at €2.50 with a caña of Estrella. Vegetarians should try the escalivada—roasted aubergine and peppers dressed simply with oil that probably came from trees you walked past earlier.

Lunch starts at 14:30. Arrive earlier and you'll drink alone; arrive later and the kitchen's closed. Most bars operate cash-only—the ATM inside Cajamar bank sometimes works, sometimes doesn't. When it's broken, the next machine sits eight kilometres away in Montserrat, so fill your wallet in Valencia before heading out.

Saturday morning's market sets up by the health centre: three fruit stalls, one hardware van, a woman selling socks that definitely fell off a lorry. Buy rosquilletas here—dry bread sticks that cost €1 and pair surprisingly well with beer when you've had enough of unfamiliar tapas. The Aldi on the CV-40 closes Sunday afternoon; plan accordingly or you'll be eating crisps for dinner.

Walking Through Working Countryside

Montroy's countryside works for a living. Footpaths follow irrigation channels built by the Moors—concrete now, but the gradient remains perfect after 800 years. A two-hour circuit heads north past the ruined farmhouse of Mas de L'Hereu, through almond terraces that explode pink-white in late February. Spring brings the best walking: temperatures hover around 20°C, the soil smells of wet clay, and farmers greet walkers with surprising enthusiasm—foreign boots still merit curiosity here.

Summer walks require strategy. Start at 7 am or don't bother; by 10 am the thermometer hits 32°C and the only shade belongs to orange farmers who've locked their gates. Autumn means mushroom hunting—locals guard their spots like state secrets, but you'll see them returning at dawn with baskets of níscalos sold door-to-door at €20 per kilo.

Winter's different. When the tramontana wind blows from inland, temperatures drop to 5°C and the village smells of woodsmoke and damp earth. This is honey-cake season—every household has a recipe, none agree on spice quantities. The museum extends opening hours for Christmas school trips; hearing 30 Valencian seven-year-olds sing carols in fractured English almost justifies the €3 entry fee.

Getting There, Staying Sane

No train station. No regular bus service. Montroy demands wheels—hire a car at Valencia airport and take the CV-50 towards L'Alcúdia, switching to CV-425 after 20 kilometres. The road climbs past wholesale plant nurseries selling olive trees older than the United Kingdom. Parking's simple: the polideportivo offers free spaces and clean toilets, though the bar opens only when someone's bothered to find the keys.

Accommodation means either renting a village house via Spanish websites or staying in Valencia and day-tripping. The latter makes sense—Montroy works as punctuation between Valencia's city buzz and the proper mountains further west. Tie it with nearby Montserrat's monastery ruins or Alaquàs's modernist cemetery for a day that mixes agriculture, architecture and the pleasing realisation that you've seen zero other British number plates.

Come for the honey, stay for the realisation that Spain still produces places where tourism hasn't become the local industry. Just WhatsApp the museum first.