Potries

The storks always return first. By February they're rebuilding their twiggy condominiums on the baroque tower of Santa Ana, long before the orange blossom releases its dizzying perfume over the village. It's a reliable calendar that locals trust more than any weather app, and it signals the start of Potries' gentle reawakening after winter.

At barely 65 metres above sea level, this agricultural settlement sits in that liminal zone where the coastal plains of La Safor dissolve into citrus groves. The Mediterranean lies just 12 kilometres away, close enough for sea breezes to temper the summer furnace, yet far enough that you'll find no beach bars or souvenir tat. What you will find is a working village of 1,100 souls where the rhythm of life still follows the agricultural calendar, and where British cyclists arrive each morning to collect hire bikes before heading off along the Via Verde rail-trail.

The village's heart beats around the Plaça de l'Ajuntament, a sun-bleached square where elderly residents occupy the same bench positions they've held for decades. The 18th-century town hall wears its terracotta tiles with the confident air of somewhere that has witnessed centuries of harvests, fiestas and the gradual encroachment of modernity. It's here that you'll realise Potries makes no concessions to tourism in the conventional sense. There's no visitor centre, no multilingual signage, and certainly no one trying to sell you fridge magnets.

Instead, the village's museum celebrates its craft heritage with the Museu de la Cassoleria, dedicated to the traditional basket-weaving that once employed half the population. Turn up at 10:00 sharp and the custodian, Miguel, will likely give you a private tour in hesitant but enthusiastic English. He'll demonstrate how local palms were soaked, split and woven into everything from grain sieves to the distinctive cossols used for measuring oranges. It's a dying art now – the last master weaver passed away in 2018 – but the museum keeps the knowledge alive with the stubborn pride of somewhere that values skill over spectacle.

The narrow streets that radiate from the square reveal Potries' Moorish DNA in their labyrinthine layout. Whitewashed walls reflect the fierce Valencian sun, creating natural air-conditioning in the taller houses where internal courtyards funnel cooling draughts through living spaces. Look up and you'll spot the original wooden beams, some dating to the 16th century, their grain twisted by centuries of summers that regularly touch 40°C. Metal grills guard windows at street level – not for security, but to support the cascading geraniums that provide splashes of colour against the monochrome walls.

Santa Ana church dominates the skyline with its honey-coloured stone tower, visible from every approach road. Inside, the baroque interior reveals itself gradually as your eyes adjust from the glare outside. Gilded altarpieces glimmer in the dim light, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of devoted fingers. The church keeps irregular hours – it opens for mass and little else – but persistence pays off. Ring the bell marked 'Rector' and if Father Vicente is around, he'll unlock the doors with the resigned good humour of someone used to curious foreigners.

The real magic happens beyond the village limits. Follow Carrer de Dalt past the last houses and you're immediately immersed in a landscape that feels suspended between centuries. Irrigation channels, some Roman in origin, still carry water to the orange groves in a system so efficient that modern engineers study it for sustainable agriculture courses. The paths are flat, shaded by ancient carob trees, and perfect for gentle cycling. You'll pass farmers tending their trees with methods their grandparents would recognise, though now they're checking market prices on smartphones tucked into overall pockets.

Spring brings the famous azahar – the orange blossom whose scent is so intense it can induce headaches in the uninitiated. From late March through April, the entire valley becomes a natural perfume factory, the sweetness almost overwhelming in the early morning when dew amplifies the fragrance. It's beautiful, certainly, but local wisdom suggests limiting exposure to two-hour stretches until your senses adjust. The payoff comes in winter when the trees hang heavy with fruit, creating a natural Advent calendar of golden orbs against glossy green foliage.

Food here follows the agricultural cycle with zero pretension. At Cassoleta, the modern tapas bar on Carró de la Bassa, chef María updates village classics for contemporary tastes. Her duck confit croquettes have achieved minor legend status among cycling groups, while the vegan options acknowledge changing dietary preferences without alienating traditionalists. The English menu is accurate, though María prefers to explain dishes herself, her language skills honed by years of patient repetition.

For more traditional fare, Moli Canyar occupies an old mill beside the Vernisa river, its terrace shaded by enormous plane trees. The rice dishes arrive in proper paella pans, the socarrat – that coveted caramelised base – achieved through techniques learned from mothers and grandmothers. Staff will adjust seafood content or spice levels for British palates, though they'll roll their eyes good-naturedly if you ask for chips on the side.

The village's annual fiesta in July transforms this quiet backwater into something approaching lively. Santa Ana's feast day brings processions, late-night dancing in the square, and temporary bars that serve potent mojitos to teenagers who've returned from university cities. It's when Potries most resembles other Spanish villages, though even at its busiest, you'll never queue for drinks or fight for space. The fireworks display, modest by Valencian standards, still manages to set off car alarms in neighbouring towns.

Practicalities matter here. The ATM on Carrer Major frequently runs out of cash on weekends, and both restaurants prefer payment in notes. Parking is free on the main square but fills quickly on Sunday lunchtimes when families gather for the ritual paella. The last bus back to Gandia leaves at 19:30, and taxis after 22:00 require advance booking. August afternoons can be brutal – the narrow streets offer little shade, and even locals retreat indoors between 14:00 and 17:00.

Yet these minor inconveniences are part of Potries' unvarnished charm. This isn't a village that's polished itself for visitors, but rather one that gets on with living while tolerating curious outsiders who've discovered its quiet rhythms. Stay for a few hours and you'll leave with orange blossom in your nostrils and the sound of storks clicking overhead. Stay for a few days and you might find yourself adopting the local pace, where time is measured in harvests rather than deadlines, and where the greatest luxury is simply having nowhere particular to be.