San Fulgencio

Four Metres Above Sea Level, Forty Minutes from Benidorm

The road from Alicante airport drops so gradually you barely notice the land sinking towards the Mediterranean. At four metres above sea level—lower than most British high streets—San Fulgencio sits in the floodplain of the Segura River, ringed by citrus groves that smell of orange blossom for exactly two weeks each spring. The village itself is neither coastal nor pretty in the postcard sense; it's a working grid of whitewashed houses and agricultural warehouses where tractors park outside tapas bars and the weekly market smells more of fertiliser than saffron.

This is the Spain that package holidays erased elsewhere. No castle, no cathedral, no souvenir shops. Instead, a 19th-century church dedicated to Saint Fulgentius (a bishop from Cartagena nobody here can tell you much about) and a main square where old men play dominoes under plane trees. The town hall flies both the Spanish and Valencian flags; the bakery sells pan de pueblo for €1.20 and closes for siesta at 1pm sharp.

Two San Fulgencios, Four Kilometres Apart

Drive east for four kilometres and you hit La Marina—though hit is the wrong word, because nothing about the urbanización warrants the violence. This is where 80% of the municipality's foreigners actually live: a sprawl of low-rise villas and bungalow estates built in the 1980s for northern Europeans who'd misjudged both the exchange rate and the Spanish sun. Today the roundabouts have bilingual signs ("Welcome / Bienvenido") and the supermarket trolleys contain Tetley tea and Heinz beans. In winter the car park at Iceland fills with UK-registered campervans; in August the same vehicles sprout awnings and satellite dishes beside the communal pools.

The beach, Playa de La Marina, is what keeps them here. A seven-kilometre sweep of fine sand backed by dunes and pine plantations, it remains mercifully free of the high-rise horror show further north. Yes, there's a chiringuito selling overpriced San Miguels, but walk ten minutes south and you'll have a cove to yourself even in July. The water stays shallow for 100 metres—perfect for toddlers, hopeless for serious swimmers. Lifeguards mark the safe zone with green flags; outside it, the current rips fast enough to whisk an inflatable unicorn towards Algeria.

Irrigation Ditches and Sunday Roasts

Back in the village, agriculture clings on despite the groundwater getting saltier each year. Follow the CV-859 south and you'll see date palms and lemon trees laid out in perfect squares, the channels between them dating to Moorish times. Farmers—now mostly in their sixties—still flood-irrigate using sluice gates carved from eucalyptus wood. Early mornings smell of damp earth and diesel; by 11am the only movement is a solitary stork circling the azud (weir) that diverts river water into the fields.

The contrast with La Marina's commercial strip is almost comic. On Calle del Mar Cantábrico, The Rover's Return pub serves Yorkshire pudding on Sundays while three doors down Bar Central doles out café amb llet and bocadillos de calamares to Spanish tractor drivers. Neither clientele acknowledges the other, though they buy their bread from the same panadería—the one that opens at 6am for workers and again at 5pm for pensioners.

When to Come (and When to Stay Away)

May and late-September hit the sweet spot: 25°C days, 17°C nights, beaches empty enough that you can park for free on the rough track behind the dunes. Accommodation splits cleanly: village rentals (€45-€60 a night) give you barking dogs and church bells; La Marina villas (£550-£850 a week) come with British TV and pools that feel like bathwater by August. Avoid mid-July to mid-August unless you enjoy 35°C heat and queues at the Spar. Winter is eerily quiet—many restaurants close entirely from November to February—but the camper park on Calle Mar Cantábrico fills with long-stay Brits who've traded Kent drizzle for €12-a-night electric hook-ups.

Car hire is non-negotiable. Buses run from Alicante to the village twice daily but stop at 7pm; there's no service at all to the beach estates. Taxis from the airport cost €35-€40 pre-booked, double if you just turn up. Cycling works if you're fit—the land's flat but the wind whips in off the sea hard enough to topple an unwary pensioner.

Food Without the Fuss

Village eating is refreshingly un-touristy. Restaurante Miguel on Calle Mayor does a three-course menú del día for €12 including wine; Thursday is paella de verduras day, served at 2pm to a room of farm workers in overalls. In La Marina, El Charro grills Argentine steaks the size of dinner plates (£22 with chips) while El Oasis will sell you a full English, a curry and a pint of John Smith's under the same roof—convenience over coherence, but nobody complains.

The Wednesday morning market in the village square undercuts supermarket prices: a kilo of just-picked oranges for €1, a bunch of coriander big enough to make salsa for twenty, miel de romero from a beekeeper in Callosa. Bring cash; the tomato seller eyes cards like they're witchcraft.

Leaving the Enclave

San Fulgencio works best as a base rather than a destination. Ten minutes south, the salt flats of Santa Pola host flamingos from December to April. Twenty minutes inland, the palm forest at Elche—UNESCO-listed since 2000—offers shade when the coast gets oppressive. North again, Alicante's old town serves turrón ice-cream and proper espresso without a Union Jack in sight. The trick is to treat La Marina as your supermarket and sanatorium, then drive into the village for the Spain that still feels Spanish—even if the barman now understands "white coffee, no sugar" in a Yorkshire accent.

Come for the beach if you must, but stay for the contradiction: a place where British pensioners and Spanish farmers share the same four-kilometre patch of coast, each pretending the other doesn't exist. It's not pretty, it's not quaint, and it won't change your life. It will, however, give you a tan for £300 less than Benidorm and a story about the day you watched Coronation Street dubbed into Spanish while eating pipas with the locals.