Catral

The tractor drivers at Catral's Friday market have a sixth sense for British number plates. Before you've even switched off the engine, they're gesturing towards a gap between the citrus stalls. Twenty minutes later, you're balancing paper cones of warm buñuelos—squidgy pumpkin doughnuts—while the same farmers who grew your breakfast lettuce sell you a 3-kilo sack of oranges for two euros. This is agricultural Spain without the Instagram filter, and it's refreshingly honest about what it is.

Catral sits nine metres above sea level in the Vega Baja del Segura, forty minutes southwest of Alicante airport. What began as an Iberian settlement became a Moorish irrigation hub; the name derives from the Arabic al-qatrani, meaning "place where water divides." Those medieval channels still feed 3,000 hectares of market gardens that supply Aldi, Tesco and Sainsbury's with winter lettuce. The town itself won't win beauty contests—concrete apartment blocks ring the centre—but the surrounding patchwork of orange groves, date palms and plastic-clad greenhouses produces some of Europe's finest vegetables. British supermarkets don't label their provenance, yet that bagged rocket in your fridge probably started life here.

The Centre That Isn't Touristy

Start at Plaza de la Constitución, where the 18th-century Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Rosario presides like a stern aunt. Limestone blocks have blackened with citrus-scented air; inside, the patron saint wears a cloak embroidered by local women in 1932. Mass times are posted on peeling paper—Sunday at 11:00, not 10:30 as Google claims. The church isn't spectacular, but it anchors a community where 40% of residents still work the land. Step outside and you're immediately in normal Spanish life: pensioners on benches comparing tomato varieties, teenagers vaping beside the Civil War memorial, the bakery selling pan de pueblo baked at 4 a.m. in wood-fired ovens.

Walk two minutes east to Calle Mayor and the early-1900s Casa de Cultura, once the agricultural cooperative. Its modernist ironwork and turquoise tiles hint at Art Nouveau aspirations, though inside it's now municipal offices and a small exhibition room. Last month displayed prize-winning onions; this month, photographs of 1950s irrigation rituals. Entry is free, opening hours erratic—turn up mid-morning for the best chance. Across the road, Bar Central serves coffee at 80 cents if you stand at the counter, £1.20 at a table. The owner, Paco, learnt English working in Nottingham; he'll tell you which fields are picking today if you ask nicely.

Fields That Feed Britain

Rent a bike from Catral Cycling (€15 per day, helmets optional) and head south on CV-901. Within five minutes, tarmac gives way to caminos of compacted earth lined with reeds. Irrigation channels gurgle on both sides; Moorish engineers plotted these gradients so precisely that water still flows by gravity alone. Follow the signs for Ruta de las Palmeras—a flat 12-kilometre loop through orange groves, past smallholdings where Ecuadorian pickers earn €45 per eight-hour shift. Date palms tower overhead, their trunks scarred by decades of machete harvesting. Stop at the balsa (reservoir) where herons stalk goldfish; farmers wash pesticide sprayers here, so don't paddle.

The landscape isn't pretty in the chocolate-box sense. Plastic greenhouses glint like aircraft hangars; discarded irrigation tubing litters ditches. Yet there's something mesmerising about industrial agriculture on a human scale. Pull over at a packing station and watch women sort lettuces at dizzying speed—each leaf destined for British shelves within 48 hours. They'll wave you through if you smile; photography is discouraged, not prohibited. Bring water: summer temperatures hit 38°C, and shade is scarce. Spring brings almond blossom; late October smells of fermenting oranges fallen from overburdened trees.

What to Eat When You're Surrounded by Salad

Back in town, lunchtime options reflect the harvest. Restaurante La Vega on Avenida de la Constitución does a three-course menú del día for €12 including wine. Start with ensalada de la huerta—shredded lettuce, radish, onion so fresh it crunches like apple—then rabbit and snail paella cooked over orange-wood embers. Vegetarians get arroz de verduras stocked with artichokes so tender they melt. Portions are industrial; asking for a medium paella marks you immediately as foreign. Service is leisurely—don't expect the bill within an hour of finishing.

British cravings? Bar 42 on Calle San Roque serves a Sunday roast from 13:00, beef carved by an expat from Hull who moved here for the weather. It's decent, though Yorkshire puddings emerge suspiciously uniform. Better to embrace local rhythms: breakfast at 10 (toast rubbed with tomato and garlic, swimming in olive oil), big lunch at 3, then merienda of ice-cream from Heladería Artesana. Their turrón flavour uses almonds from orchards you've just cycled past; a scoop costs €1.80, payable only in cash.

When the Town Lets Its Hair Down

Catral's fiestas reveal another dimension. October's patronal fair dedicates five days to the Virgin of the Rosary; processions wind through streets carpeted with coloured sawdust designs that take volunteers all night to create. Rock bands play in the car park at 2 a.m.; teenage Brits on half-term gawp at grandparents dancing sevillanas until dawn. In August, fiestas de verano bring foam parties and fairground rides to the polígono industrial. Both events attract crowds from Alicante—parking becomes impossible within a kilometre of town. Book accommodation early, or stay in nearby Dolores where prices don't triple.

The weekly Friday market is tamer but more authentic. Stalls sprawl from Plaza de España to the football ground, 300 vendors selling everything from Moroccan saffron to Chinese power drills. Farmers' wives wear housecoats and gold jewellery; they expect you to taste before buying. Negotiation is gentle—knock 20% off and everyone's happy. Bring a rolling cool bag: the cheese stall stocks queso de cabra aged in wine that puts British goat's cheese to shame. Market winds down by 2 p.m.; most bars close soon after, so stock up on water before siesta hits.

Getting There, Getting Around

Alicante airport hosts direct flights from 23 UK airports; Ryanair and easyJet dominate, but BA flies from London City if you crave legroom. Catral lies 25 minutes south-west via the AP-7 toll (€6.95) or 35 minutes on the free A-7 if you're economising. Car hire is essential—Hertz and Centauro have desks at arrivals, though booking with local firm Victoria Cars saves £40 per week. They meet you in the car park; paperwork takes ten minutes. Without wheels, you're stranded: buses run twice daily to Alicante, none to the coast.

Driving in town is straightforward once you learn the one-way system. Park on Avenida de la Diputación (free, unlimited) and walk five minutes to centre. Google Maps underestimates walking times—pavements are narrow, elderly pedestrians slower than algorithmic predictions. Cycling infrastructure doesn't exist, but traffic is light and drivers courteous. Taxis need 24-hour notice; WhatsApp +34 666 123 456 for English-speaking Juan who charges €18 to Guardamar beach.

Accommodation splits into two camps: in-town apartments or rural fincas. Casa Catral offers a three-bedroom villa with pool 3km from centre—£90 per night on Booking.com, though ring directly to avoid fees. British-run Finca La Raya provides B&B doubles from €65 including sourdough toast and marmalade made with local Seville oranges. Their rescue donkeys entertain children while parents read by the pool. Hotel options are thin; nearest is La Finca Resort ten minutes away, a golf complex that could be anywhere in the world. Better to stay local and embrace the 7 a.m. sound of tractors.

Catral won't suit everyone. If you need medieval alleyways or boutique shopping, drive to Rojales or Orihuela. What this place offers is Spain before tourism—functional, friendly, unselfconscious. Come for the market gardens, stay for the realisation that your supermarket salad has a postcode. Leave the car unlocked, the oranges on the passenger seat. Nobody will take them; they're probably growing their own.