Rafal

The church bell strikes midday and the only other sound is a sprinkler ticking in the neighbouring orange grove. Rafal doesn’t announce itself; it simply continues the routine it has followed since the irrigation channels of al-Andalus first fed these fields. Five thousand souls, one main plaza, and a grid of streets wide enough for the tractor that rumbles through each dawn with trailer-loads of lemons. For visitors fresh off the Alicante flight path, the village can feel like a software glitch—no souvenir racks, no multilingual menus, not even a cash machine. That, oddly, is the point.

The slow circuit

Begin where every local ends up sooner or later: the Iglesia de San Antonio Abad. The sandstone tower is neither ancient nor grand, but it anchors the plaza like a village clock-watcher. Mass times are posted on the door; if the wooden shutters are closed, the bar opposite will know why. From the church step, look south-east: the land drops a barely perceptible two metres towards the Segura river, enough to let gravity do the watering. A five-minute stroll down Calle Mayor reveals the town’s architectural spectrum—1920s brick balustrades, 1970s render, the occasional Modernist glazed tile that somehow escaped demolition. Notice the house-fronts painted the colour of wet sand; they photograph better at 17:00 when the sun flattens the façades and the shadows retreat.

Carry on until the street spits you onto the CV-920, the single-carriageway that links Rafal with Orihuela five kilometres away. Cross with care—Spanish drivers treat the 50 km/h limit as theoretical—and you are instantly in the huerta. A concrete track, signed in fading green paint as “Carrera Villa de Rafal”, loops for 3.2 km through the groves. The route is pancake-flat, but trainers are advisable; after rain the topsoil turns to adhesive clay. Interpretation boards appear every kilometre, printed only in Valencian and Spanish, yet the vocabulary is friendly: taronja (orange), limoner (lemon grove), sèquia (irrigation ditch). Spring visitors catch the citrus blossom at nose-level; autumn brings the harvest and the air tastes like fizzy lemonade.

What you’ll eat—and when you won’t

Rafal’s two Spanish bars open when their owners arrive. One is opposite the health centre, the other beside the petrol station; both shut by 14:30 sharp. Expect a short glass of beer and a plate of tortilla cut into door-stop wedges. If the menu chalkboard lists arroz de montaña, order it: the mountain in question is the vegetable patch out back, and the rice arrives stained green with beans and artichoke. Prices hover round €9 a plate; cash only. Monday is culinary roulette—many families cook at home after the weekend, so the bars often stay shuttered.

For emergency kebabs there is Turkish Garden on the industrial estate. British voices sometimes carry across the plastic tables, but the proprietor speaks fluent German too, legacy of fifteen years in Cologne. His chips are proper British-style, thick and soft, should homesickness strike.

When the village turns the volume up

Mid-January, San Antonio Abad brings a procession, a pop-up fairground, and the only night of the year when traffic is diverted. Book accommodation early—there isn’t any inside the village. The nearest beds are in Orihuela or Almoradí, both ten minutes by car, and taxis triple their rate after 23:00. August fiestas are warmer in every sense: brass bands march at midday mercury, paella pans stretch two metres across, and children chase each other round the plaza until parents surrender around 02:00. Earplugs recommended if your Airbnb faces the square.

March sees Fallas, the fire-festival more associated with Valencia city. In Rafal the effigies are smaller, the fireworks cheaper, yet the smell of gunpowder drifts over the groves just the same. A word of caution: falla figures are sometimes clad in satirical costumes that get lost in translation; explain before the kids ask why the mayor is wearing a dress made of bin bags.

Driving in, dropping out

Alicante-Elche airport to Rafal takes 30 minutes on the A-31, then the CV-920. Petrol is cheaper at the airport roundabout than on the autopista. Leave the dual carriageway at the Almoradí exit; sat-navs that insist on “Rafal, Murcia” will dump you forty kilometres south in the wrong province. Once arrived, park on the gravel strip by the agricultural co-op—spaces are ample, free, and your rental Clio will survive the door-swing of neighbouring 4×4 tractors.

There is no bus back to the coast after 19:00. If you plan to taste the local gin-and-tonic habit (measures are Valencia-style, i.e. generous), book a taxi in advance: Orihuela firms charge €35 to Torrevieja, €55 to the airport after midnight.

The honesty clause

Rafal will not fill a week. A morning’s wander, lunch, perhaps a cycle towards the river and you have ticked the box. Yet that scarcity is what makes the village useful. When the coastal towers of Guardamar feel frantic and the beach bars blast 1990s pop, the 25-kilometre drive inland offers instant decompression. Bring a paperback, sit on the plaza bench, and let the cicadas do the talking. If you need constant stimulation, stay on the coast. If you are happy to watch the light change across fifty shades of citrus leaf, Rafal keeps a plastic chair waiting—just don’t expect anyone to bring you a souvenir.