Algorfa

The scent hits you first. Not sea salt or pine, but orange blossom heavy in the morning air, drifting from groves that stretch uninterrupted to the horizon. At barely 26 metres above sea level, Algorfa sits low in the Segura river's flood plain, a patchwork of citrus orchards stitched together by irrigation ditches older than most European capitals. This is Spain's vegetable garden, worked by the same families for generations, yet five minutes from the village square you can order a decent flat white and discuss handicap adjustments in fluent Home Counties English.

The Two Faces of a Village

Algorfa carries its split personality comfortably. The original settlement clusters around the 18th-century church of San Miguel Arcángel, whose baroque tower rises above a handful of streets just wide enough for a tractor and a nodding acquaintance. Here, grandparents still sit outside their front doors at dusk, and the baker knows which loaves to keep back for Señora Pilar. Walk five hundred metres south-east, however, and you enter La Finca, a manicured estate where detached villas with heated pools trade for half the price of a Surrey semi. The golf course, ranked among Spain's top 50, charges green fees that work out at roughly £45 for 18 holes—considerably less than a Sunday round back home, and with considerably more reliable weather.

Between these two worlds lies the agricultural belt that pays the bills. Navel oranges, satsumas and lemons change the colour palette with the seasons: deep green after irrigation, white with blossom in March, then the slow ripening towards December's harvest. Farmers use the same Moorish water channels laid out eight centuries ago; the only modern addition is the plastic tubing that carries fertiliser straight to the roots, giving the groves their faint chemical tang after rain.

Morning Rituals and Market Day

Dawn starts early. By seven the sprinklers are hissing, and elderly men in berets cycle past with traditional baskets strapped to their handlebars—though these days the baskets often hold supermarket shopping rather than agricultural tools. The British contingent surfaces later, drifting into Baldwin's Artisan Bakery for sausage rolls that wouldn't look out of place in a Yorkshire high street. Owner Mark Baldwin swapped Hull for Alicante in 2004; his steak-and-ale pies sell out by eleven, testament to both homesick palates and the limited breakfast competition.

Friday is market day, though the term flatters a dozen stalls that fit comfortably around the tiny Plaza de la Constitución. One stall sells mis-matched socks, another three-year-old phone cases. The real action is social: pensioners compare blood-pressure medication while expats exchange recommendations for reliable builders. For serious groceries everyone drives fifteen minutes to Torrevieja's Mercadona, returning with car boots full of British teabags and Spanish wine at €2.50 a bottle.

Pedal Power and Pavement Politics

Algorfa's flat terrain makes cycling tempting, but the agricultural lanes come with caveats. Tractors have right of way and won't slow down; loose fruit squashed into the tarmac creates skid hazards; and should you stray into a drainage ditch the smell lingers on trainers for weeks. Better to follow the signed route that loops 12 km south to Almoradí, shadowing the Segura's reed beds. Kingfishers flash turquoise between the reeds, and the only sound is the click of freewheels and the occasional splash of a carp breaking the surface.

Walking stays within the village grid unless you fancy a dusty trudge. The ayuntamiento has recently installed new benches every hundred metres—controversial, because elderly residents claim they encourage loitering. Politics here runs on pavement furniture and the price of paella rice; the last municipal election hinged on whether to resurface the car park behind the medical centre. Turnout was 82%.

What to Eat, When to Eat

Lunch starts at two and finishes by four. Restaurant choices are limited but honest: Bar Algorfa does a three-course menú del día for €12 that might include artichoke rice followed by pork in citrus sauce, the oranges picked that morning from the chef's cousin's grove. Evening fare tilts British—fish-and-chips appears on most menus, and curry nights raise money for the local dog shelter. The serious gastronomic action happens during fiestas, when the Cáritas kitchen sets up giant paella pans in the street and every family contributes a chicken. Portions are free, though donations are expected; skip the queue by volunteering to stir, a sweaty honour that guarantees first serving.

Seasons of Noise and Silence

Visit in late September and San Miguel brings ear-splitting fireworks, processions that block the main road, and dancing until the baker starts his shift. March delivers Las Fallas on a smaller scale: a single papier-mâché effigy, torched at midnight while the British crowd films on their phones, mildly shocked that health-and-safety extends only to a single fire engine parked discreetly round the corner. July and August are quieter—too hot for fireworks, too hot for almost anything except early-might golf and late-night gin-and-tonics on the terrace. Temperatures touch 38°C; the citrus trees survive on drip-feed, and the village smells of warm dust and draining chemicals.

Winter, by contrast, is the secret season. Daytime January temperatures hover around 19°C, rental villas drop to £450 a month, and the golf course is empty enough to play in three hours. The only downside comes at dusk when mosquitoes rise from the river; local chemists sell repellent at €6 a bottle, or simply light a citronella candle made from—what else—left-over lemon peel.

The Practical Bits

Alicante airport lies 35 minutes up the AP-7 toll road (€6.95 each way). Car hire is non-negotiable; the twice-daily bus to Murcia stops on request if the driver recognises you, an unreliable system that has left more than one traveller stranded outside the petrol station for hours. Medical English is spoken at the health centre on Calle Mayor, and the dentist will happily invoice Bupa. Cashpoints dispense euros free of charge, though the village ATM ran out of money during last year's fiesta and wasn't refilled until the following Tuesday—plan accordingly.

Leave expectations of cathedral squares and Michelin stars at passport control. Algorfa offers instead the small pleasure of watching two cultures coexist without much fuss: a place where you can breakfast on bacon butties, lunch on rabbit paella, and spend the afternoon discussing fertiliser prices with a fourth-generation farmer who also happens to own a Leeds United season ticket. It's not picture-postcard Spain, but it works—provided you don't mind sharing the pavement with both a stray spaniel and a stray Englishman reminiscing about 1990s Sheffield.