Monforte del Cid

The white balloons appear first. Hundreds of them, scattered across vineyards like escaped party decorations. These are actually paper bags tied around individual table-grape bunches to protect the developing fruit from wasps and sunburn—a technique that makes Monforte del Cid's vineyards look like an outdoor art installation each summer. It's the sort of detail that makes you realise you're not driving through just another Alicante dormitory town, though the distinction becomes murkier the closer you get to the centre.

Monforte sits 230 metres above sea level, roughly twenty minutes' drive inland from Alicante Airport. The proximity explains much about its current identity crisis. The old town clusters around a thirteenth-century castle, while the surrounding plains sprout not almond trees but faceless urbanisations—those half-empty housing estates built during Spain's property boom, now populated largely by British retirees who've discovered they can buy a three-bedroom villa for less than a garage in Surrey. Spanish is optional here; English works fine at the bakery, the pharmacy, even the town hall on Tuesdays.

The Castle and the Kitchens

The Castillo de Monforte commands the ridge, its sandstone walls glowing amber at sunset. What remains is essentially a hollow shell, extensively modified after the Christian reconquest then left to weather gracefully. The climb takes eight minutes from Plaza de España if you're moderately fit, longer if you stop to photograph the views across the Vinalopó Valley. From the battlements you can trace the town's evolution: medieval core to the north, twentieth-century expansion southward, twenty-first-century sprawl bleeding into the countryside.

The castle's interior hosts occasional concerts during August fiestas, when the natural acoustics turn every performance into something approaching a religious experience. Otherwise it's simply a ruin with excellent sight-lines and a small interpretation panel explaining, in Valencian and somewhat shaky English, how this was once a Moorish stronghold. Bring water—the concession stand operates only during festival weekends and the nearest café won't thank you for asking for tap water.

Back in the old town, the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de las Nieves anchors a plaza barely large enough for the Thursday market. The church's baroque altarpiece merits ten minutes of anyone's time, though you'll need to visit during mass (Sundays at 11:00) or ask at the tobacconist for the key. She keeps it under the counter between cigarette sales and will want to practise her English while you wait. The museum opposite attempts to explain local archaeology but closes for three hours at lunch, like everything else. Plan accordingly or you'll find yourself wandering shuttered streets wondering if civilisation has ended.

Grapes, Almonds and the Saturday Shuffle

The agricultural economy revolves around two crops: table grapes and almonds. Visit in February and almond blossom transforms the surrounding hills into something resembling a Japanese watercolour. By July the same trees look exhausted, their leaves grey with dust. The vineyards tell a happier story—Monforte's grapes carry Denominación de Origen Alicante status, and local cooperatives produce robust reds from Monastrell grapes that laugh at drought conditions.

Saturday morning brings the weekly market to Avenida de la Constitución. Stallholders sell uva embolsada—those seedless table grapes you've watched develop under their paper hats—alongside strings of dried peppers and the local anís 'Paloma'. The liqueur tastes like liquorice-light Ouzo and slips down dangerously easily over ice at €8 a bottle. British expats queue early for the bread van from Novelda because local bakeries persist in making savoury pastries that drip oil onto your sandals.

Restaurante Ramón, tucked behind the modern town hall, serves the sort of food Spanish grandmothers recognise. The menu del día costs €14.50 and might feature rabbit with snails, or simply grilled entrecôte with chips if you ask nicely. They're used to British preferences—Ramon's daughter studied in Brighton and returns each summer to translate requests for "well-done, please" without visible wincing. Wine comes from a neighbouring village and arrives in unlabelled bottles that taste better than they should.

Walking Through Contradictions

The municipality has created several waymarked walking routes, though signage assumes you already know where you're going. The gentlest circuit heads three kilometres to the Ermita de San Pascual, a tiny chapel perched on an adjacent ridge. The gravel track passes through working vineyards where farmers eye visitors suspiciously—ask permission before photographing the bagged grapes, they're touchy about intellectual property. The chapel itself offers genuinely spectacular views across almond terraces that appear unchanged since Moorish times, until you spot the Ryanair flight descending towards Alicante.

More ambitious hikers can attempt the 12-kilometre loop through El Pinet, but summer heat makes this genuinely dangerous. Temperatures regularly exceed 38°C and there's no shade whatsoever. Spring and autumn provide kinder conditions, though you'll still need two litres of water and a hat. The tourist office provides basic maps but stocks no walking guides in English—download the Wikiloc app before leaving home.

When Silence Falls

By 14:00 on weekdays, Monforte enters its siesta coma. Shops roll down shutters, bars switch off coffee machines, even the dogs seek shade. This isn't tourist-board romanticism—it's economic reality in a town where unemployment remains stubbornly high and air-conditioning expensive. Plan lunch early or you'll starve until 20:30, when the evening paseo brings pensioners and teenagers alike to Plaza de España for the nightly parade of who-wore-what-to-whose-wedding.

August transforms everything. The Moros y Cristianos festival fills streets with marching bands, gunpowder explosions and medieval costumes that cost more than most locals earn in three months. Accommodation books out twelve months ahead as Spanish families return to ancestral homes. British residents either join the party or flee to cooler northern cities—there's no middle ground when the brass band starts at 03:00 beneath your bedroom window.

The Honest Verdict

Monforte del Cid works best as what the Spanish call a "pueblo de paso"—somewhere you pass through rather than base an entire holiday. It offers authentic glimpses of agricultural Spain: almond blossom, family vineyards, elderly men playing cards beneath plane trees. Yet it's also undeniably a commuter suburb for Alicante, complete with industrial estates and roundabouts that confuse sat-nav systems daily.

Come for the castle views, stay for Ramón's roast lamb, buy a bottle of anís and a kilo of those famous grapes. Don't expect cobblestone perfection or undiscovered paradise—this is simply a working town that happens to contain 700 years of history among its housing estates. The almond blossom really is spectacular though, and those white balloons in the vineyards make for photographs your friends won't quite believe are real.