Torrevieja

The Colour that Stops Traffic

At 7.30 on a July morning the lagoon is already blushing. Not the soft pastel of postcards, but a violent, almost fluorescent rose that makes drivers slam on the brakes beside the N-332. This is Torrevieja's party trick: 1,400 hectares of water that turns strawberry milkshake thanks to halobacteria thriving at ten times the salinity of the Med. You can't swim here—the fence sees to that—but the roadside pull-off is free and the flamingos don't seem to mind the audience.

Sea Front, Salt Back

Torrevieja wears its coastline like a belt that's been let out too far. Twenty km of promenade—proper slabbed concrete, not crumbling tarmac—stitch together beaches whose personalities shift with every kilometre. Down at Playa del Cura the sand has been trucked in so often it feels imported, which it is. Rows of rental sunbeds (€5 a day, €7 with parasol) line up with military precision and in August you really could walk from towel to towel without touching sand. British voices predominate, intercut with Valencian Spanish and the occasional Swedish expletive when someone kicks sand over a Kindle.

Keep walking north and the crowd thins. By the time you reach Playa de los Locos the apartment blocks step back, giving the horizon room to breathe. The sea shelves gently here—rock-pool shoes still recommended thanks to the stone ridges the council never quite manages to flatten—but there's space to spread out. Locals claim this stretch for evening football and morning yoga; the Brits tend to colonise the middle section, recognisable by the cool-boxes and the paperback thrillers wedged into beach bags from home.

Another 25 minutes on foot (or ten on the tourist train that toots every half-hour) brings you to La Mata within the municipal boundary but psychologically elsewhere. The sand is wider, the dunes genuine, and parking along the Avenida de la Libertad is still free—music to anyone who's fed £50 into a Cornwall meter. On a weekday in May you might share 200 m with a dozen people and a determined dog-walker. The water loses the turquoise filter here; it's proper Atlantic green and cold enough to make you rethink that second swim.

What the Brochures Don't Mention

Torrevieja isn't quaint. It's a town of 90,000 that happened to be dropped on the coast, complete with four-lane ring roads and roundabouts whose sculptures nobody can quite explain. The fishing fleet still operates from a pocket-sized harbour, but trawlers share space with glass-bottom boats advertising "submarine visions" and party catamarans that depart twice daily for three-hour booze cruises. The smell of diesel mingles with that of churros; gulls pick at discarded chips while nets are repaired regardless.

The Friday market sprawls so far that Google Maps gives up. Starting at 9 am it occupies every car park south of the bus station, 700-odd stalls selling everything from knock-off Liverpool shirts to rope-grown mussels that taste better than they should. Haggling is expected; a ten-euro note still gets you a carrier bag of bikinis or a whole dried octopus the size of your arm. Go at 1 pm and you'll shuffle along in human traffic worthy of Oxford Street. Go at 9.30 and you can actually see the merchandise, plus the vendors are friendlier before the sweat starts dripping.

Eating without Tears

Menu del Día is the unsung hero for visitors whose Spanish stops at "gracias". Most bars along the Paseo Marítimo Juan Aparicio offer three courses plus bread and a drink for €10–12. The trick is to look for hand-written boards rather than laminated photos. At Restaurante Sirocco they plate a respectable paella for the tourists but locals order the salted sea-bass, a nod to the town's sodium past. Staff switch to English the moment they hear hesitation; some diners find this thoughtful, others mourn the lost opportunity to practise ordering "una caña" with conviction.

Evening eating starts late. Try booking a table at 7 pm and you'll be dining alone, possibly under vacuum cleaners. By 10 pm the same place is humming, children still up and grandparents demolishing gin-tonics the size of goldfish bowls. If you absolutely must eat early, head to the Chinese-Spanish hybrids round Plaza Waldo where set menus come with prawn cocktail and a time-travelling 1970s vibe. It's not haute cuisine, but it is hot, cheap and judgement-free.

Winter Lives Here Too

From November to March Torrevieja shrinks. The population halves, sunbeds stack up behind beach bars and the promenade becomes a cardiovascular corridor for Brits in zip-off trousers. Temperatures hover round 18 °C—cardigan weather—yet the sky stays relentlessly blue. Estate agents in La Mata report a steady stream of couples from Birmingham and Sunderland buying two-bed flats for €65,000 cash, delighted to discover they can walk to Mercadona without negotiating an icy pavement once all winter.

The salt lakes become audible: thousands of wintering flamingos conversing in low honks that carry across the water. Bring binoculars and a wind-break; the tramontana gusts can knock a tripod sideways. On the upside, parking anywhere is suddenly possible and restaurant owners remember your name after the second visit. The downside? Many chiringuitos board up, so that sunset beer may need to be fetched from a vending machine.

Getting it Right

Arrive at Playa del Cura after 11 am in August and you'll deserve the €60 fine the traffic wardens are gleefully writing. The council tow-truck operates like a Formula 1 pit crew; blink and your hire car is heading for the compound beside the police station. Better to leave the wheels at La Mata where the road-side bays stretch for kilometres, then ride the L2 bus back into town for €1.45—exact change only, driver patience minimal.

Sunday supermarket closure still catches people out. Stock up Saturday night or face a diet of crisps and warm cola until 5 pm. And remember the Spanish timetable: lunch kitchens shut at 4 pm sharp, reopen 8 pm. Turn up at 5 hungry and you'll be limited to ice-cream and sympathetic shrugs.

Last Light

The best time to walk the promenade is 8.30 pm, when the sun has lost its bite but the stones still radiate warmth. Couples push prams, teenagers practise skateboard tricks, elderly men in linen shirts play petanca on the packed-dirt courts. Out beyond the breakwater the returning fishing boats sketch white lines on water turning from cobalt to pewter. Nobody is taking selfies; the moment belongs to the town, not the internet.

Torrevieja doesn't need to be "discovered". It discovered itself years ago and built accordingly. Accept the concrete, forgive the August crowds, and the place starts to work. The salt still dries in geometric pans behind the hypermarket, the gulls still follow the boats, and on certain evenings the lagoon flames so pink it looks like the town is blushing at its own audacity. Stay long enough and you might too.