Full Article
about La Romana
Agricultural and quarry town; rural setting of pine woods and vineyards
Ocultar artículo Leer artículo completo
The 480-Metre Difference
From Alicante airport's departure lounge to La Romana's Saturday market takes thirty-five minutes. That's thirty-five minutes from English-language menus and €6 pints to a village where the baker still remembers your order after two visits. At 480 metres above sea level, the air carries a dryness that makes 25°C feel like proper summer rather than Costa humidity, and the Costa itself becomes a thin white line on the distant horizon.
The altitude matters more than you'd think. Morning mist pools in the Vinalopó valley below while La Romana wakes to clear skies. In July, when coastal resorts swelter through 35°C nights, the village cools to 22°C after dark. Winter mornings drop to 5°C—frost isn't unknown—so pack layers even for February's almond blossom season, when pink-white orchards create what British photographers call 'the inland answer to Japan's sakura'.
A Grid That Makes Sense
Unlike medieval hill villages designed by drunk mules, La Romana's streets follow a logical grid. Wide enough for tractors, they radiate from Plaza Mayor where elderly men in flat caps occupy the same benches their grandfathers used. The church clock strikes quarters rather than hours—time moves differently here, but it moves accurately.
The baroque San Pedro church dominates the centre, its tower visible from every approach road. Inside, the mixture of devotional folk art and practical village adaptations tells its own story: electric candles wired alongside ancient brass holders, children's drawings taped beneath 17th-century frescoes. The ruined castle above town requires proper footwear—what remains are walls rather than ramparts—but the view stretches across vineyards to the Sierra de Salinas, worth the scrabble up loose stones.
What Saturday Tastes Like
Market day transforms the logical grid into controlled chaos. Stalls appear at 8:30am, manned by farmers whose families have sold here for generations. €3 buys a kilo of grapes that taste like wine before it happens. The cheese stall offers queso de cabra that's young and mild—ask for 'curado' if you want the mature stuff that bites back. By 1:30pm, everyone's packing up; the last stallholder sweeps almond husks into neat piles before disappearing for siesta.
The village pool, set in parkland on the northern edge, costs €1 entry (free for residents). British families discovered it during lockdown summers—clean water, pine shade, and none of the coastal pool's towel-at-dawn sunbed wars. The lifeguard works June through September; outside these months, it's closed but the surrounding paths make excellent dog-walking territory.
Walking Through Three Seasons
Spring brings the famous almond blossom, but autumn might be better. October's harvest means tractors loaded with purple grapes crawl along main roads, their juice dripping onto tarmac. The smell of fermentation drifts from cooperative bodegas—La Romana's wines won't challenge Rioja, but the local Monastrell carries a mineral sharpness that pairs perfectly with rabbit stew.
Walking tracks radiate from the village like bicycle spokes. The Vinalopó Greenway follows an old railway bed—flat, gravelled, perfect for families. More serious hikers can tackle the 12km loop to neighbouring Novelda, passing abandoned farmhouses and ancient irrigation channels. Summer walkers should start early; by 11am the sun turns shade into a theoretical concept. Winter hiking means proper boots—frost makes limestone paths treacherous.
The Other Costa Blanca
British property buyers discovered La Romana's secret first: traditional Spain within striking distance of airports. The estate agents in Novelda (ten minutes down the road) report steady interest from retirees wanting village life without isolation. Prices remain sensible—€120,000 buys a three-bedroom village house with roof terrace, though you'll need Spanish for negotiations. The catch? Properties rarely hit the open market; sales happen through village networks before websites update.
Three supermarkets serve 2,632 residents, plus two butchers who'll joint a chicken while discussing your weekend plans. The bakery on Calle San Francisco opens at 6am; their almond biscuits disappear by 9. There's even a bookshop, improbably well-stocked for a village this size, though the English section runs to Wilbur Smith and last year's beach reads.
When Not to Visit
August fiesta week turns sleepy into sleepless. Fireworks start at 7am—yes, morning fireworks—and continue past midnight. The population doubles as expat children return with grandchildren in tow. Book accommodation a year ahead if you want front-row seats; otherwise, September offers 28°C days and village normality restored.
January's almond blossom brings day-trippers from Alicante, coaches navigating streets designed for donkeys. They photograph the orchards then leave before lunch, missing the point entirely. Stay for menu del dia at Bar Central—three courses, wine, water and coffee for €12. The owner, Maria, speaks fluent pointing and appreciates attempts at Spanish. Her arroz con conejo arrives in a pan big enough for two; rabbit bones require negotiation, but the rice absorbs stock that's been simmering since dawn.
Getting Lost Properly
The village isn't pretty in picture-postcard terms—concrete houses replace whitewashed perfection, satellite dishes bloom from rooftops. But it's real in ways that coastal resorts lost decades ago. When the baker asks about your morning, he's genuinely interested. When bars close at 4pm for siesta, they're not being quaint; they're being practical.
Car hire remains essential. The last bus to Alicante leaves at 7:30pm; miss it and you're facing a €70 taxi ride. August visitors should book vehicles months ahead—airport queues stretch into hours. Winter flights often arrive after car-hire desks close; pre-book 24-hour collection or stay near the airport. Carry cash—many bars and the Saturday market remain stubbornly card-free. The Santander ATM on Calle Mayor doesn't charge foreign transaction fees; others might.
The Long Goodbye
Leave early evening, when the setting sun turns the Sierra de Salinas copper-coloured and tractors head home along country lanes. The logical grid softens in golden light; church bells mark the hour as they have for centuries. Down on the coast, restaurants fill with sunburnt tourists discussing tomorrow's beach plans. Up here, villagers queue for bread before shops close, planning nothing more dramatic than tomorrow's walk through almond groves.
La Romana won't change your life. It offers something subtler: the realisation that thirty-five minutes from Britain's favourite Spanish airport lies a village where life proceeds at agricultural pace, where Saturday market determines weekly rhythms, and where the altitude makes everything—the air, the light, the perspective—just slightly different.
