Cullera

The lift to Cullera's castle costs one euro, but the attendant often waives the fee if you arrive panting from the pilgrim footpath. It's that kind of place—part medieval fortress, part modern resort, where a 13th-century watchtower shares the skyline with 25-storey holiday flats that wouldn't look out of place on Miami Beach.

This split personality is exactly what makes Cullera absorbing. Stand atop the old battlements and the view swings from citrus groves and rice paddies to a ribbon of sand that stretches 15 kilometres southward. In the middle distance, the Júcar river glides into the Mediterranean through a delta of reeds and small boatyards. The castle itself—rebuilt after James I of Aragon booted out the Moors—now doubles as an orientation point for hikers and a sunset bar for German exchange students.

Getting here is painless: the regional train from Valencia's Estació Nord takes 36 minutes and deposits you 800 metres from the urban beach. That proximity explains why Madrileños treat the town like an annex of their own city every July and August. Outside those months the promenade can feel semi-abandoned; some winters only a single supermarket stays open and even the taxi rank outside the station vanishes.

The beaches, though, never close. Blue Flag standards apply from the town-centre stretch of San Antonio to the wilder southern flank at El Marenyet. Morning joggers have the sand to themselves October through May, while kite-surfers relish the reliable thermal breeze that kicks in most afternoons. Families cluster nearest the breakwater where lifeguards, ice-cream kiosks and Burger King provide familiar reassurance; further south the only facilities are driftwood and the odd fisherman mending nets.

History buffs should time their castle ascent for late afternoon, when heat and tour groups subside. The fortress museum houses a small display on Dragut the pirate—said to have used a cave beneath the walls as a lair—plus a chapel dedicated to Cullera's patron saint. English-speaking guides appear sporadically; if no one is available, the €2 entrance still buys panoramic photos that stretch from the lighthouse on Cape Cullera to the distant mountains of Albaida. The easiest descent is via the serpentine road: longer but kinder to knees than the stone stairway locals sprint up for evening exercise.

Back in the old centre, the baroque church of Santos Juanes closes unpredictably outside festival weeks. When it is open, look for the tiled dome visible from Plaza Mayor; inside, frescoes illustrate the 1643 naval battle when townsfolk repelled a Berber raid. The surrounding lanes are tiny—three minutes of walking end-to-end—yet they hide decent tapas bars where a plate of grilled cuttlefish costs around €8 and the house white comes from Valencia's Turia valley.

Serious walking starts beyond the tourist nucleus. A marked greenway follows the Júcar inland for 8 kilometres through orange groves and rice fields where herons work as unpaid pest control. Cyclists can continue another 20 kilometres to Alberic on a flat, tarmacked track; the return leg usually involves a tailwind and the promise of horchata in Cullera's main square. For hill country, drive 15 minutes to the village of Favara and pick up the PR-CV 355 footpath: it climbs 500 metres into the Mondúver massif, shady with Aleppo pines and scented by wild rosemary.

Food remains resolutely local. Rice dominates—either as paella de marisco loaded with mussels and prawns, or the fisherman's version called arroz a banda that uses stock from yesterday's catch. If crustaceans feel too adventurous, most kitchens will knock up a perfectly acceptable tortilla or squid-ring platter. Dessert tends to be orange-based; the region still exports early-season clementines to British supermarkets every October. Dining out of season requires planning: many restaurants close Sunday evening and all day Monday, leaving Tele-Pizza as the only delivery option.

Festivals punctuate the year with medieval rather than Mediterranean flair. March brings Fallas—giant satirical sculptures torched on the 19th amid fireworks loud enough to set off car alarms. June heralds the Moros y Cristianos parades: residents spend small fortunes on silk costumes and musket blanks to re-enact the 13th-century reconquest. Visitors who prefer quiet should note that hotels triple their rates and insist on minimum stays during these fiestas; book early or base yourself in Valencia and commute.

Practicalities are straightforward in summer, trickier the rest of the year. The tourist office beside the town hall stocks maps and will phone a taxi if the rank is empty. Buses to outlying beaches run every half-hour July to mid-September, then shrink to a skeleton schedule. Hire bikes from the kiosk on Avenida del Rábaldí—geared hybrids suffice for the greenway, though mountain bikers will want suspension for the castle tracks.

Weather follows a mild coastal pattern: 25–30 °C highs through July and August, tempered by sea breezes that also whip up sand. October and April deliver mid-20s with empty beaches, but note that hotel pools close the instant Spanish schools reopen. Winter is genuinely quiet—good for writers, less so for families seeking atmosphere. Rain, when it arrives, tends to be torrential and brief; the rice farmers welcome it.

Cullera won't suit travellers hunting unspoilt fishing hamlets—high-rise development saw to that decades ago. Yet the place functions: fishermen still auction their catch at dawn, nuns ring the chapel bell for vespers, and teenagers swap skateboards for surfboards after class. If you can tolerate the architectural mish-mash and remember to stock up on groceries before Sunday, the town delivers an easy slice of coastal Spain without the Costa Blanca price tag. Just bring change for the castle lift—and consider the road route down after one too many glasses of paella-wine.