Beniflá

The morning bus from Valencia drops you beside a row of citrus trees whose branches brush the windows. That's your first clue Beniflá isn't coastal Spain as Britons imagine it—no promenades, no beach umbrellas, just the scent of orange blossom drifting across flat farmland fifty metres above sea level.

A Grid of White Walls and Irrigation Ditches

Forty-eight streets, four hundred and eighty souls, one church tower. The village sits on a barely perceptible rise in the middle of La Safor's agricultural basin, twenty kilometres back from the nearest stretch of sand at Gandía. Houses are low, whitewashed, and pressed shoulder-to-shoulder as if huddling against a non-existent mountain wind. Walk the perimeter in twelve minutes; spend longer and the elderly men on the plaza will start greeting you by nodding, certain they've seen you before.

Arab-tiled roofs slope inwards to catch every drop of winter rain. Stone doorframes still bear the chisel marks of whoever carved them in the 1800s; iron grilles guard windows no larger than a sheet of A3. Behind many façades lie patios—tiny courtyards where a single lemon tree provides both shade and breakfast. The architecture is practical rather than pretty, designed to keep occupants cool when July temperatures nudge 38°C and warm during the brief, damp days of January.

Outside the built-up core the pattern dissolves into orchards. Irrigation channels, some dating from Moorish times, divide the land into handkerchief-sized plots. Drive in April and the blossom forms a low white cloud that stretches to the horizon; come November the same trees hang with fruit so bright it looks artificial. Farmers still hand-pick oranges into plastic crates stacked on three-wheeled motocultor trailers that trundle along at walking pace, blocking the lane to anyone in a hurry.

What Passes for Action

There is no tourist office. Instead, questions are fielded by the woman who runs the grocery on C/ Major. She sells tinned sardines, bicycle inner tubes, and local mistela sweet wine poured from an unlabelled demijohn. Opening hours follow an elastic timetable: 08:30–13:00, 17:00–20:30, closed Sunday afternoon and any day the owner decides to help her sister-in-law with the harvest.

The parish church opens for mass at 19:00 on Saturdays and 11:00 on Sundays; at other times the door remains locked, though the priest lives opposite and will usually fetch the key if asked politely. Inside, the single-nave interior holds a baroque altarpiece gilded in 1742 and a side chapel dedicated to Sant Blai, patron of throat complaints. Locals still bring small loaves shaped like necks on his feast day, 3 February, then eat them to ensure another year free of coughs and colds.

Beyond that, entertainment is self-generated. British visitors accustomed to signposted trails will search in vain; instead, walkers follow the dirt tracks that link the orchards. A circular route of 5 km heads south to the hamlet of Alquería de la Torre, where an abandoned farmhouse serves as a roost for barn owls. Another 3 km lane runs east to the acequia of Foyos, an irrigation channel wide enough for herons to fish. Both paths are flat, shadeless, and best attempted before 11:00 when the sun is still civil.

Eating (or Not) in the Village

Meals happen at home. The solitary bar, Casa Ángel, opens at 07:00 for coffee and bocadillos, closes at 15:00, then reappears from 19:00 until the last customer leaves—usually before midnight. On Wednesdays it doesn't reopen at all. Order a beer and you'll be asked whether you want a plate of whatever Ángel's wife is cooking: perhaps arroz al horno baked with chickpeas and black pudding, perhaps a bowl of gazpacho topped with diced peaches when the season is right. The menu is £9 including wine; vegetarians receive an omelette and apologies.

For self-caterers the grocery stocks oranges that were on a tree that morning, bread flown in from a Gandía bakery, and sobrasada soft sausage made in neighbouring La Vall d'Albaida. There is no cheese counter, no hummus, no oat milk. If you need tofu you're advised to bring it with you.

Timing the Trip

Spring steals the show. From mid-March to late April the blossom releases a perfume strong enough to drown out diesel fumes, and daytime temperatures hover around 22°C—ideal for cycling to the nearby village of Palma de Gandía to see its 14th-century watchtower. Accommodation is limited to two small guesthouses, each with three rooms, both booked solid during Easter week by Spanish families visiting relatives. Expect to pay £55–£70 B&B; dinner is an extra £18 if you warn them before 12:00.

Autumn offers a quieter experience. The harvest begins in October; farmers welcome extra hands and usually pay in oranges rather than euros. Nights drop to 12°C—pack a fleece. Rain arrives in short, heavy bursts that turn the lanes to mud slick enough to topple a hire-bike. Wellies solve the problem; the village shop keeps a rack of green ones at the back, sizes 36–45, £12 a pair.

Summer is brutal. Daytime highs regularly exceed 36°C and the flat terrain provides no refuge. By 14:00 the streets empty; even the dogs seek shade under parked cars. Only masochists attempt the orchards between June and August unless armed with three litres of water and a wide-brimmed hat. If you must visit, base yourself in Gandía and drive in at dawn.

Winter is mild but monochrome. Grey mist lingers over the fields until 11:00; the blossom is months away and the trees look military, regimented, faintly depressing. On the plus side rooms are £10 cheaper and the grocery stocks chufas for making horchata, a milky drink that tastes of marzipan and costs £1.50 a carton.

Getting There, Getting Out

Beniflá sits 6 km west of the AP-7 motorway, midway between Valencia and Alicante. From either airport allow 75 minutes by hire-car: take the A-7 south, exit 60 at Gandía, then follow the CV-683 through orange groves. The final approach is a single-track road; pull into the verge when the oncoming tractor flashes its lights—the local signal that you're expected to reverse fifty metres to the nearest passing place.

Public transport exists but demands stoicism. ALSA runs one daily bus from Valencia's main station at 07:45, returning at 14:10. The journey takes ninety minutes and costs £7.20 each way; buy tickets on board because the village stop has no machine, no shelter, no timetable. Miss the return and you'll wait twenty-four hours or call a taxi from Gandía (€35, cash only).

Cyclists can follow the Via Verde de la Safor, a dismantled railway line starting in Oliva and ending 8 km short of Beniflá. The surface is compacted gravel, flat as a snooker table, and passes through three tunnels—bring lights. From the trail's terminus at Potries it's a 30-minute ride on quiet lanes; watch for irrigation pipes across the road every hundred metres.

The Honest Verdict

Beniflá will not change your life. It offers no Michelin stars, no selfie-beach, no gift-shop selling fridge magnets shaped like paella pans. What it does provide is a snapshot of how most Valencians actually live: early starts, small plots of land, conversations conducted across balconies hung with washing. If that sounds dull, stay on the coast. If you fancy learning how to distinguish a navel-lane-late from a valencia-late by taste alone, book a room in April and arrive hungry.