Benejúzar

The Thursday morning market sets up before the sun climbs over the citrus groves. By eight o'clock, Avenida del País Valencià smells of freshly ground coffee and just-picked navel oranges. Stallholders shout prices in rapid Valencian while British visitors shuffle forward, reusable bags in hand, trying to work out whether three euros buys a kilo or a net of loquats. Nobody minds the hesitation; Benejuzar sees few accidental tourists, and the market regulars still have time to explain.

This is not the Spain of coastal brochures. The town sits 25 minutes inland from Guardamar's dunes, at a mere 39 m above sea level, ringed by irrigation ditches that pre-date the Moors. Low, whitewashed houses line a grid of streets just wide enough for a tractor with citrus crates. There are no high-rise hotels, no English breakfast banners, no beach bars. Instead, the soundtrack is the clack of dominoes in Plaza Mayor and, in March, the hum of bees drunk on azahar blossom.

The church, the plaza and the pace

Every route through town leads eventually to the Iglesia de San Bartolomé, its bell tower patched after the 1829 earthquake that rattled the entire Vega Baja. Step inside and the air is cool, scented with wax and stone; outside, elderly men occupy the benches beneath jacarandas, debating irrigation rotas in voices that never rise above a murmur. The scene feels unchanged since the 1950s, apart from the mobile phones that appear when someone needs to check the price of clementines in Alicante's wholesale market.

Coffee costs €1.20 at Bar Central if you stand at the counter, €1.50 at a table. Order before midday and you'll get a complimentary swipe of tortilla; after noon the choice switches to plates of crumbs from the day's baguette ends—still free, still appreciated. Try asking for "café con leche" in an oversized mug and the owner, Charo, will raise an eyebrow. She keeps one giant cup specifically for Brits, hidden behind the coffee machine like a guilty secret.

Walking, cycling and the scent of money

Flat as a snooker table, the huerta rewards slow exploration. A signed 6 km loop, the Ruta de las Norias, starts behind the health centre and passes two restored waterwheels, irrigation locks and a nineteenth-century finca whose owner will wave you through the gate to photograph the pomegranate hedge. The path is gravel, trainers suffice; bring water between May and September because shade is sporadic and the thermometer nudges 38 °C.

Mountain bikers use the same tracks, though tyre marks disappear under tractor tread after the harvest. There's no bike hire in town: visitors usually drive over from Torrevieja with roof-rack bikes, or phone Cycling Costa Blanca in Algorfa (twenty minutes away) for a €25 per day hybrid. If you arrive without wheels, walking the irrigation berms is still worthwhile—every turn reveals another avenue of knotted olive trunks and glossy lemon fruit glowing against the deep green.

Food that follows the fields

Lunch starts at 13:30 earliest; turn up at noon and you'll be offered a drink and crisps while the chef finishes her own meal. Local menus depend on what the orchard and the Segura river provide. Charlot's estofado de ternera—beef slow-cooked in La Mancha red wine—comes with crusty pan de pueblo that locals break, never cut. The dish tastes of winter evenings even in April, thick enough to hold a spoon upright. Ask for chips instead of rice and the waiter will nod without judgement; they learnt long ago that British palates sometimes need potatoes.

Vegetarians do better than expected. Punto Caliente grills fat padrón peppers until they blister, then showers them with coarse salt. Their honey-roast vegetable platter uses whatever the market couldn't shift—courgettes, aubergine, onion—roasted until the edges caramelise. Pudding is usually tocino de cielo, a set custard that arrived with nuns from neighbouring Orihuela and never left. One portion is enough for two; the caramel alone contains approximately a week's sugar allowance.

Fiestas where strangers get seats

The Fiesta Patronales around 24 August turns the quiet plaza into a fairground. A temporary bar serves jugs of sangria for €4; plastic chairs appear like mushrooms after rain. Brits who time their visit for the paella gigante on the final Sunday can eat for free—just queue with a plate before 14:00. The pan is three metres across, stirred with oars, flavoured with rabbit and beans from the vega. Portions run out fast; latecomers console themselves with churros and chocolate at €2 a cone.

January brings the Fiestas de San Antonio, when locals drag pruned orange branches into piles, add old pallets and light bonfires so large the Guardia Civil sometimes park a fire engine at the entrance to town. Animals—mostly dogs, occasionally a bemused pony—receive a splash of holy water outside the church. Visitors are welcome to bring pets; the priest once blessed a terrapin brought by a family from Quesada who'd read about the ritual online.

When to come, how to arrive, what can go wrong

Spring, mid-March to early May, is the sweet spot. The azahar perfumes the entire valley, daytime temperatures sit in the low 20s and almond blossom drifts across the roads like confetti. Avoid the last week of August unless you enjoy drum bands at 03:00. December hosts the Belén Viviente, a living nativity that winds through the streets; wrap up—nighttime readings can drop to 4 °C and the town's single ATM often empties when coach parties arrive.

There is no railway. Alicante airport is 45 minutes by car on the A-7 and AP-7; ignore the sat-nav shortcut through the orange groves unless you fancy reversing half a kilometre when the tarmac ends. Park at the Polideportivo on Calle Mayor—spaces are free, shaded and rarely full. Thursday market traffic clogs the centre from 09:30; arrive earlier or accept a five-minute shuffle behind a queue of SEATs.

Shops shut 14:00–17:30; Mercadona in Jacarilla, ten minutes north, stays open through siesta and stocks Marmite for the desperate. Several cafés remain cash-only; the Cajamar ATM beside the town hall charges €2 but saves embarrassment when the bill arrives. Accommodation is limited—two village guesthouses and a handful of Airbnb casitas—book early for fiesta weeks or resign yourself to a coastal hotel and a late-night drive back.

The honest verdict

Benejuzar will not dazzle with monuments or Michelin stars. It offers instead the minor pleasure of watching a place work, of tasting fruit that was still on a branch at sunrise, of hearing church bells compete with a tractor's reverse alarm. Come for a morning, stay for lunch, and you might find yourself timing future Costa Blanca holidays to coincide with the orange blossom. Just remember to bring cash, arrive hungry after 13:30 and leave the coast's expectations behind with the sea breeze.