Simat de la Valldigna

The monastery bells strike eleven and the only other sound is a single cyclist freewheeling down Carrer Major, tyres hissing on warm tarmac. No tour groups, no gift shop, not even a fridge magnet. Simat de la Valldigna still behaves like a place that has never needed visitors, which is precisely why people make the 45-minute dash inland from the Costa Blanca.

What the Cistercians Left Behind

The Royal Monastery of Santa María squats at the northern edge of town like a half-assembled film set. Founded in 1298 by Jaime II, it was once the economic engine of the entire valley; today you pay €4 at a side door and enter a precinct where orange trees grow through the cloister floor. Parts are immaculate—18th-century marble retablo gleaming after a recent scrub—while others remain open to the sky, swallows nesting in medieval ribs of stone. Guided visits run twice a day (10:30 and 16:30) in Spanish only, but the caretaker will happily unlock extra rooms if he senses genuine curiosity rather than selfie-hunting. Ask to see the celler where the monks once trod grapes: the press is still intact, though now it overlooks a modern irrigation channel humming with dragonflies.

Back in the grid of low, ochre houses, the parish church of Santa María feels almost modest by comparison. Step inside anyway; the temperature drops five degrees and the smell is of candle wax and old paper. A 15th-century Flemish panel hangs in a side chapel, unlabelled, protected only by a piece of perspex screwed to the wall. No one rushes over to explain it, which somehow makes the encounter better.

Flat tyres and tiger-nuts

The valley floor is a chequerboard of oranges, persimmons and abandoned vegetable plots. A paved-greenway—part of the old Xàtiva–Gandía railway—starts behind the monastery gates and runs dead-straight for 14 km to the coast at Xeraco. British cyclists love it: traffic-free, pan-flat, with shade from carob trees and the promise of a swim at the far end. Hire bikes at Valldigna BTT on Avinguda País Valencià (€18 a day; helmets included) and pack a picnic from Saturday’s market on C/ Major—loaf of pan de pueblo, tomatoes the size of cricket balls, and a wedge of goat’s cheese that costs less than a London coffee.

If you prefer walking, follow the sign-posted Ruta de la Font upstream. Thirty minutes of gentle climb brings you to a stone trough where spring water tumbles out of the hillside at a steady 16 °C even in August. Locals arrive with jerry cans and gossip; tourists are still rare enough to earn a polite “Bon dia” and a wave.

Ordering lunch without the hard sell

There are no seafront touts here, no laminated menus in five languages. Instead you get family bars where the daily menu costs €12 and the waiter will ask whether you’re “de la comarca” before deciding how much Spanish to speak. Trinquet restaurant keeps an English crib sheet behind the counter for the occasional British cyclist, but the food is emphatically local: salt-cod salad with sweet orange segments, rabbit paella cooked on a gas ring at the back of the room, and horchata made from tiger-nuts grown 8 km away. Vegetarians survive on grilled artichokes and the best omelette this side of the Pyrenees. Payment is cash only—walk fifty metres to the Santander ATM first or you’ll be washing dishes.

Afternoons shut down between 14:30 and 17:00. Accept it. Sit in the plaça with a café amb llet and watch old men play petanca under the plane trees; the click of boules is the loudest noise you’ll hear until the church bell calls la oració.

When the valley parties (and why you might leave)

Simat’s calendar still pivots around the monastery. May’s romería sees half the valley walk up the dirt track at dawn, carrying a statue of the Virgin to the ruined chapter house for an open-air mass. By midday the scent of rosemary and grilled sausages drifts across the car park and someone has produced a sound system that only plays Valencian dolçaina music. You’re welcome to join; nobody will try to sell you a wristband.

August is different. The fiestas patronales in honour of San Bernardo mean ear-splitting mascletàs (daytime firecracker barrages) and brass bands that march until 03:00. Light sleepers should book a room on the western side of town or retreat to the coast for the weekend. The upside is free street theatre, open-air cinema in the monastery cloister and the best paella contest in the region—wood fires, iron pans two metres wide, and judges who take their tasting spoons very seriously.

Getting here, getting out

Simat sits 15 km inland from Gandía, close enough for a beach fix yet high enough to dodge the worst coastal humidity. Alicante airport is 90 minutes south by hire car; Valencia airport 55 minutes north. Renfe’s regional train stops at Platja de Xeraco, 2 km below the town, but services are thin and the station has no ticket machine—buy online or risk a lecture from the conductor. Buses from Gandía run roughly hourly except Sunday; the timetable is taped inside the bakery window and nowhere else.

If you’re staying overnight, choices are limited and honest. Hostal El Pansal occupies a 19th-century townhouse on Carrer d’en Sant Ramon: seven rooms, beams sloping at alarming angles, but the owner speaks fluent BBC English after twenty years in Manchester. Doubles from €55 including breakfast (fresh orange juice, ensaimada pastry, coffee strong enough to stain the cup). There is no pool; cool off at the municipal outdoor pool on Passeig de l’Estació (€2, open June–September).

Last bell

Leave before the final monastery tour and you’ll miss the best moment—closing time, when the caretaker shuts the iron gate with a clang that echoes down the valley. Walk back through the orange groves as the sun drops behind the last ridge and the air smells of blossom and wood-smoke. Simat doesn’t do Instagram moments; it simply continues, and for a few hours you were part of the continuation. Head east to the coast if you need noise and nachos. Or stay another night, order a second horchata, and admit that some places are better precisely because they never learned to hustle.