Callosa de Segura

The Thursday morning market spreads across Plaza de la Constitución like a living map of the Vega Baja. Between stalls piled with misshapen lemons and bunches of herbs that still carry river mist, elderly women in house coats haggle over the price of artichokes. They're speaking Valencian, though the accent here is softer than along the coast. This is Callosa's weekly heartbeat, when the town's 5,000 residents remember they're part of something bigger than the orange groves that press against every street.

Twenty-seven metres above sea level might sound insignificant, but this slight elevation saves Callosa from the coastal humidity that turns August into a survival exercise. Instead, the town sits in a natural bowl where the Segura River once deposited enough silt to create some of Spain's most valuable agricultural land. The Moors understood this eleven centuries ago; their irrigation channels still divide water between farms with the precision of a Swiss watch. Modern visitors notice it as a network of concrete ditches running beside country lanes, but these acequias are why your breakfast orange juice tastes the way it does.

The old town compresses five centuries into roughly twelve streets. Calle Mayor narrows to shoulder-width in places, where medieval builders clearly never anticipated SUVs. The 18th-century church of San Martín dominates everything, its baroque facade built with stone that turns honey-coloured at sunset. Inside, the air carries incense and floor wax, plus something indefinable that accumulates in places where people have been praying for eight hundred years. The tower bells still mark time for agricultural cycles rather than tourist schedules – they'll wake you at seven regardless of your plans.

Behind the church, the Huerta Museum occupies a former grain store that smells of dried grass and old leather. It's essentially one room, but explains why local families still argue about water rights with the intensity of a UN summit. Display cases hold wooden tools that look medieval until you realise similar ones hang in nearby farm sheds. The curator, when he's there, speaks rapid Spanish and demonstrates how a water wheel works using a plastic model. Entry costs two euros; pay him directly because the card machine broke in 2019.

Cycling here requires accepting that flat is a relative concept. The agricultural tracks radiating from town are paved but cracked, perfect for hybrid bikes rather than road machines. Following the Segura eastwards brings you to Orihuela in forty minutes, past fields where workers in straw hats move between lemon trees like chess pieces. Westwards, the route towards Almoradi passes through a small nature reserve where kingfishers dive for river fish. Bike hire is theoretically available from the petrol station on the CV-905, though it's best to phone first – they're often closed for family occasions.

Food follows the calendar religiously. In January, it's cod with raisins because preserved fish meets winter hunger. April brings tender broad beans stewed with ham bone. September means oven-baked pumpkin with local honey, sweet enough to convert vegetable-sceptic children. Frasquitín bar serves all of these as tapas, though you'll need to ask because the menu written on the blackboard assumes prior knowledge. Their house wine comes from Utiel-Requena, an hour inland, and costs €1.80 a glass. It's rough but honest, rather like the proprietor.

The practicalities trip up most visitors. Cash remains king; many bars lack card facilities because the phone signal struggles with thick stone walls. Parking works on the assumption that everyone knows someone who knows someone – the free lot by the sports centre fills early, after which it's narrow streets designed for donkeys. Sundays see everything shuttered except the church and one overpriced cafe near the main square. August temperatures regularly exceed thirty-eight degrees; the town's lack of coastal breeze makes it feel like forty-five.

Yet these frustrations create Callosa's particular rhythm. British expats who've settled here talk about "real Spain" with the fervour of converts, though they still drive to Torrevieja for proper bacon. They've learned that lunch happens at three, that the pharmacy closes for two hours midday, that speaking Spanish isn't optional. Their integration test comes during San Roque festival in August, when the town stages mock battles between Moors and Christians. Newcomers usually volunteer for Christian side because the costumes involve less fake tan.

Staying requires choosing your compromise. The 18th-century Casa Rural La Fontana has beams you can't stand upright under and a plunge pool that stays permanently freezing. Hotel La Finca ten minutes away offers English-speaking staff and golf, but you might as well be in Marbella. Most sensible visitors rent apartments near Plaza de la Constitución for £45-60 nightly, where morning coffee happens on balconies overlooking streets too narrow for traffic noise.

Leaving brings the realisation that Callosa de Segura isn't trying to impress anyone. It grows oranges, buries its dead in the church crypt, and celebrates festivals that made sense four hundred years ago. The Segura River keeps flowing, the acequias keep dividing water, and Thursday's market keeps bringing the countryside into town. It's not hidden, not undiscovered, just existing on terms that predate tourism and will probably outlive it. Whether that's enough depends entirely on your tolerance for places that refuse to perform.