Xeresa

The Village That Motorway Drivers Miss

Seventy kilometres south of Valencia, the AP-7 motorway swings inland for a few kilometres before returning to the sea. Most British number plates thunder straight past exit 60, bound for the familiar caravan sites of Gandia or the high-rise apartments of Denia. Those who bother to peel off find themselves on a slip road that threads between citrus groves and suddenly narrows: welcome to Xeresa, population 2,200, altitude 30 metres, attitude unapologetically local.

The first thing you notice is the smell. Between late March and early May, the air is thick with orange-blossom perfume so heady it feels almost improper, like walking through someone else's cologne. The second thing is the quiet. No seafront promenade, no souvenir shops, no karaoke bars. Instead, there is the slow rhythm of a working village: sprinklers ticking over the vegetable plots, elderly men comparing lottery numbers outside Bar Casa Blava, and the bell of Santos Reyes church marking quarters whether anyone is listening or not.

Sea Breeze Without the Seaside Crowds

Xeresa sits six kilometres back from the coast, close enough to catch the afternoon sea breeze but far enough to escape the summer apartment-block crush. From the village square it takes eight minutes by car along the CV-675 to reach Platja de Xeraco, a stretch of fine sand backed by dunes and a scruffy pine wood. The beach has Blue Flag status but, crucially, no promenade of British bars: just a single chiringuito that sells cans of Estrella for €1.50 and will squeeze Valencia oranges into juice while you wait. Parking is free among the pines; on weekday mornings in May you can unroll a towel within earshot of the waves and see perhaps a dozen people.

Back in the village, the agricultural plain stretches flat as a cricket pitch towards the mountain wall of the Mondúver range. The contrast is almost comical: one minute you are among oranges, the next the road tilts upwards and you are in proper walking country. The PRV-153 footpath leaves from the upper edge of Xeresa, climbs through terraced almond trees and reaches the Mondúver summit (841 m) in two and a half hours. From the top you can see the coast from Valencia to Denia, the rice paddies of Sueca and, on very clear days, the hazy outline of Ibiza. Carry water: there is precisely one tap on the entire route, and it is marked "no potable".

Rice, Noodles and the Thursday Oven

British visitors expecting a glossy restaurant strip will be disappointed – or relieved. Xeresa has four bars, one bakery, one butcher and a corner shop that still weighs out almonds by the quarter-kilo. Eating happens on village time. Bar Casa Blava serves a brick-red arroz al horno every Thursday lunchtime: baked rice with pork ribs, black pudding and chickpeas, crusted on top and designed for four hungry people. Order for two and you will still leave with a doggy bag. Across the square, Restaurant El Celler offers fideuà, the local noodle dish cooked like paella but drier; ask for the two-person portion and they will bring it in the same wide pan they cook it in, plus a dollop of alioli the size of a cricket ball.

Drinks are equally straightforward. Fresh orange juice appears automatically when you sit down, costs €1.50 and sometimes comes with a free mini-muffin because the owner felt like baking. In the evening, Casa de la Senyoria pours small glasses of local Moscatel dessert wine on the house; it tastes like liquid satsuma and is dangerously easy to drink before supper.

When the Village Throws a Party

Xeresa’s fiestas are calibrated for residents, not for visitors, which is why they are worth knowing about. The main event happens around 6 January, when the Santos Reyes church procession squeezes through streets so narrow that the bearers almost brush the walls. Brass bands play at full volume, children throw sweets and every balcony displays a Spanish flag. If you dislike loud drums, avoid the centre between 19:00 and midnight; if you enjoy seeing a community that still treats its patron saints like favourite uncles, stand outside the bakery with a bag of churros and watch.

Summer fiestas shift to mid-August and add late-night verbenas in the sports-ground car park. British self-catering families sometimes complain about the 03:00 firework display; Spanish neighbours simply move their dinner tables indoors and turn the music up. Accommodation is impossible to find unless you booked in April – every emigrant grandchild returns and spare rooms vanish.

Getting There, Staying Sane

You need wheels. The village is six kilometres from the nearest railway station (Gandia) and the local bus runs four times a day, none on Sunday. Car hire at Valencia airport takes 45 minutes door-to-door via the AP-7; traffic thickens on Saturday changeover days but never reaches M25 levels. Once arrived, park on the main square – it is free, shaded by plane trees and watched by an elderly man who has appointed himself unofficial traffic warden.

Hotels within Xeresa amount to one small guesthouse above the bakery, three rooms, shared terrace overlooking the orange groves. Most visitors rent village houses by the week through Spanish sites; expect tiled floors, steep stairs and a roof terrace that catches both sunrise over the mountain and sunset over the sea. Supermarkets are in Gandia, so stock up before you leave the coast. Xeresa’s own shops open 09:00-14:00, 17:30-20:30 and will sell you excellent jamón, mediocre cheddar and fresh bread still warm from the van that delivers it each dawn.

The Catch

There is always a catch. In July and August the plain traps humidity; temperatures reach 34 °C and the afternoon siesta is not picturesque, it is essential. January can feel raw when the Tramontana wind whistles down from the mountains, and the agricultural tracks turn to orange mud after heavy rain. Mobile-phone coverage is patchy in the groves, so download offline maps before you set off walking. Finally, Xeresa offers no nightlife beyond the bars’ television showing Valencia CF matches; if you want cocktail buckets and foam parties, Gandia is ten minutes away – and so is the traffic noise you came here to escape.

Come in late April, when the blossom is just falling and the first tiny green oranges appear. Walk the irrigation lanes at seven in the morning, before the sun climbs over Mondúver and the only sound is a tractor starting up a kilometre away. Then drive to the empty beach, swim, and return for lunch that costs less than a London sandwich. You will not find souvenir magnets, and the church will not offer audio guides. What you get instead is the smell of citrus on the night air and the realisation that motorway exit 60 actually leads somewhere that still belongs to the people who live there.