Villalonga

The morning bus from Gandia wheezes to a halt beside a concrete shelter painted with fading citrus adverts. No grand plaza, no cathedral spire—just the smell of orange blossom drifting from the groves that press against the pavement. This is Villalonga: 4,600 souls, 15 km from the nearest sand, and stubbornly uninterested in becoming the next Costa Blanca day-trip.

Walk uphill from the stop and the village reveals itself in layers. Ground-floor garages stacked with agricultural crates give way to pastel houses whose iron balconies sag under geraniums. By the time you reach the 18th-century church of La Asunción the streets have narrowed enough that neighbours can discuss dinner plans across the lane without raising their voices. Inside, baroque plasterwork drips from the ceiling like icing; the caretaker will flip on lights if you arrive mid-morning, but don’t expect multilingual leaflets—just a donation box and the echo of your own footsteps.

Outside, the square hosts the weekly Thursday market: eight stalls, three of them selling the same pyramids of sardines brought up from Gandia harbour at dawn. Prices are scribbled in felt-tip: €4 for half a kilo, scaled and gutted while you wait. The fish vanish by 11 a.m.; stallholders pack up and leave the plaza to the pigeons and the elderly men who’ve claimed the stone benches since Franco's era.

Villalonga’s real wealth lies behind the houses. Follow any side street east and you hit agricultural tracks flanked by regimented orange and clementine trees. From late February the air is thick with azahar blossom; by November the fruit hangs so low it brushes the roofs of parked cars. Farmers still use the communal washhouse at the edge of town—stone basins fed by a mountain spring—though nowadays the women load plastic baskets into 4x4s rather than linger to gossip. It’s open, free, and the coldest place in the province on an August afternoon.

Climb higher and citrus gives way to pine. Marked footpaths strike into the southern folds of the Safor range, none longer than 12 km, all steep enough to remind you that the Mediterranean is only a corrugated ridge away. The Mirador de Castell d’Aixa, 40 minutes from the last villa, serves up a view that stretches from the orange grid below to the steel glint of the sea beyond Gandia. Go early: in summer the heat builds by 10 a.m. and there is zero shade. A litre of water per person is non-negotiable; the only bar en route opens randomly and closes for siesta at 13:30 sharp.

Cyclists use Villalonga as a springboard for quieter versions of the legendary Safor climbs. The CV-680 loops west through La Drova and bundles of almond terraces—road-bike territory, smooth tarmac, gradients topping out at 8%. Mountain-bikers head north on dusty caminos that link abandoned Moorish farmsteads; hire bikes at Gandia’s Decathlon, because the local shop closed in 2021.

Evenings centre on food, served earlier than in Madrid but later than British stomachs expect. Paella here arrives with mountain snails—harvested after rain and purged in flour—though most restaurants will swap for chicken if you blanch at the idea. Casa Blava on Calle Mayor does a reliable three-course menú del día for €14; the rice is cooked to order, so expect a 25-minute wait. Wash it down with a litre of cloudy casa-made vermouth, €6 and strong enough that the walk back to your accommodation feels shorter than it is.

Accommodation is low-key. Casa Rural l’Hort de Tere offers five rooms around a pool five minutes from the church; owners Tere and Mick speak Midlands English and will draw walking routes on the back of last night’s wine list. Self-caterers favour Villa Rosa, perched above the groves with a terrace that catches sunrise over the mountains and sunset over the sea—book early, there are only two British-owned lets and repeat visitors block August years ahead.

The village wakes slowly. By 08:30 the bakery on Carrer de Dalt has sold out of coques—Valencian flatbread topped with roasted vegetables—and the pharmacist is unlocking metal shutters. Nothing much happens until the 11 o’clock coffee rush, which is precisely the point. Villalonga does not do Instagram moments; even the fiestas are aimed at locals. Fallas in March means firecrackers under your balcony at 07:00 and processions whose brass bands sound better after a litre of agua de Valencia. August brings the main fiesta: bull-running in the narrow streets, pop-up beer tents, and a Saturday night foam party that leaves the plaza slippery for days. If you need sleep, choose a different week.

Getting here without a car requires patience. Fly to Valencia (Stansted, Gatwick, Manchester all year), take the metro to Jesús and then the train to Gandia. From there, buses depart at 07:40, 13:15 and 18:00—except Sundays, when there are none. A taxi from Gandia costs €35 and drivers often refuse the return trip at night. Hire cars start at £18 a day if booked off-airport; the AP-7 toll adds €7 each way but saves 30 minutes of single-carriageway lorries.

Weather follows altitude, not latitude. Ten kilometres inland can mean 10 °C less than the beach; January mornings touch freezing while sunbathers roast at Playa de Gandia. October is the sweet spot: 24 °C by day, cool enough to hike, warm enough for the pool. July and August are furnace-hot; siestas become compulsory and the river valley breeds tiger mosquitoes after 18:00—repellent essential.

Leave without expecting souvenirs. There is no craft shop, no fridge-magnet emporium, just a coop that will sell you 5 kg of imperfect clementines for €2 if you ask nicely. Pack them in hand luggage and the plane home smells better than any duty-free perfume. Villalonga will not change your life, but it might recalibrate your sense of what the Valencian interior does best: grow fruit, feed people, and carry on regardless of who has just discovered it.