Monóvar

The church bells strike half past two and Monóvar's main street empties as if someone has thrown a switch. By three, the only movement is a waiter pulling a metal shutter down across the bar doorway – lunch is over, siesta has begun, and anyone still loitering had better have brought a book. This is not a village that bends to tourist timetables.

At 400 metres above the Vinalopó valley, the town sits high enough to catch cooler air yet low enough to keep the harsh continental climate at bay. Almond orchards start at the last roundabout and roll away in every direction, their blossom turning the hillsides white each February. The sea is only 45 minutes distant by car, but Monóvar turns its back on the coast; the economy here has always been land-locked, built on grapes, almonds and the steady income of civil-service jobs in nearby Elda.

A Castle Without Turrets, A Town Without Touts

Approach from the south and the first thing visible is the Cerro de la Mola, a sandstone lump topped by what locals simply call “the castle”. Little remains beyond waist-high walls and a set of Iberian grain pits, yet the 360-degree view explains why people have bothered to defend this spot for 2,500 years. Vineyards checker the plain, the town's mismatched rooftops spill down the northern slope, and on a clear winter afternoon the marble quarries of Novelda glint on the horizon. Entry is free, the path is stony, and there is no gift shop – three facts that seem to delight the occasional British walkers who make it up before the heat builds.

Back in the grid of narrow streets, the 18th-century church of San Juan Bautista dominates the skyline with a Neoclassical façade sturdy enough to double as the town's geographical reference point. Step inside during a weekday morning and you will find elderly women polishing brass candlesticks while a recorded organ piece plays to an empty nave. The interior is unexpectedly bright; local limestone reflects the light and the gold leaf on the high altar actually looks gold rather than the nicotine brown seen in many provincial churches. Drop 50 cents into the donation box and the sacristan will switch on the side chapel so you can see a 15th-century Flemish panel that once belonged to the now-vanished Franciscan convent.

Round the corner, the Museo Arqueológico José María Soler occupies a former merchant's house. It is the sort of museum where display cases still have type-written labels, but the contents are illuminating: Iberian bronze warriors, Roman dice carved from bone, and a fragment of Islamic silk found in a graveshaft on the outskirts. Allow 30 minutes and you will leave knowing more about the Vinalopó corridor than most guidebooks bother to explain.

Wine That Costs Less Than The Cork

Monóvar's bodegas do not offer slick multimedia tours. They are working cooperatives where the tasting room smells of disinfectant and the woman pouring is likely to be the winemaker's niece. That is part of the appeal. The local variety is Monastrell – thick-skinned, drought-proof, capable of producing inky reds that reach 15% alcohol without breaking a sweat. Bodegas Piqueras supplies Tesco's “Castillo de Monséran” label, but the same wine bought from the factory door costs €3.50 a bottle. Turn up at 11 a.m. on a weekday and someone will fish out a key, talk you through stainless-steel vats the size of swimming pools, and let you sniff the difference between American and French oak. Book ahead only if your Spanish is shaky; the phone is answered in rapid Valencian.

If driving, limit yourself to two generous pours – the Guardia Civil set up checkpoints on the CV-83 most Friday evenings. A safer bet is to join the September vendimia (grape-harvest) fiesta when the town square becomes an open-air bar and proceeds go to the Santa Cecilia music society. Even then a glass of young red rarely tops €1.20.

Saturday Mornings And Other Timetables

Market day transforms the normally quiet Plaza de España into a grid of tarpaulin stalls. Fruit and veg arrive from the coastal huertas at prices that make British supermarkets look extortionate – a kilo of loquats for €1.50, bunches of coriander for 30 cents. The real entertainment is people-watching: elderly men in berets arguing over the price of rabbit; teenagers texting while queuing for churros; a stall-holder who insists on giving language lessons to a bemused expat trying to buy chickpeas. By 1:30 p.m. the square is hosed down and the only evidence is the faint smell of oranges crushed into the cobbles.

Time discipline matters here. Try to order lunch at 3:45 p.m. and you will be met with a polite shrug. Likewise, turning up for dinner before 20:30 guarantees a locked door. The British habit of eating at six is viewed with the same curiosity as wearing ski gear to the beach. Adjust your body clock and the rewards are substantial.

Restaurante Xiri, on the road out towards Pinoso, serves a three-course menú del día for €12 that would cost £25 anywhere within 50 miles of London. Rice comes studded with rabbit and land snails the size of your thumb; the stock is dark, smoky and tastes of rosemary and paprika. Pudding is usually cuajado, a fresh sheep's-milk curd drizzled with honey – think set yoghurt with more character. The house wine is decanted from a jug kept in the fridge and tastes better than anything poured by the glass in most airport lounges.

Where To Stay, And Why You Need Wheels

Monóvar has no grand hotels. El Chico Rubio is a three-room B&B tucked inside a 19th-century townhouse on Calle San Francisco. Rooms open onto an internal courtyard where breakfast (fresh orange juice, coffee that is actually hot, almond cake) appears on a tray at whatever time you request. The owners speak enough English to explain the wi-fi code but expect you to wrestle with Spanish if you want directions to the nearest filling station. Repeat visitors – many of them Brits who bought ruined fincas during the early-2000s property boom – praise the place for “letting Spain be Spain”, by which they mean no piped music, no themed décor, just thick stone walls and the distant clang of the church bell.

A hire car is essential. The nearest railway station is in Elda, a 15-minute taxi ride away, and the local bus from Alicante airport involves two changes and a two-hour wait on a concrete strip outside a petrol station. Driving, Alicante is 45 minutes down the A-31; Valencia just over an hour up the A-7. Once installed you can reach mountain villages like Biar or Fontanars in 30 minutes, or drop down to the coast at Santa Pola if you crave salt air and a British newspaper.

The Catch

Authenticity has its drawbacks. English is rarely spoken beyond the B&B and one bar run by an expat from Manchester. Medical cover is excellent – the health centre on Avenida de Elda opens 24 hours – but expect to explain symptoms in Spanish. August is fierce: temperatures nudge 40 °C and even Spaniards retreat behind persiana blinds until seven. Winter, on the other hand, can deliver frost; almond growers welcome the chill (it helps the trees set) but holidaymakers expecting perennial sunshine may be startled by the sight of locals in padded coats.

Then there is the quiet. After midnight the only sound is the occasional dog and the hum of the street-light. Light sleepers may find the silence unnerving; others discover they have never rested better.

Leave on a Sunday morning and you will see families strolling to church, grandparents holding the hands of toddlers dressed like miniature adults. No one is in a rush because the concept of Sunday lunch already assumes the afternoon is expendable. That, rather than any single monument, is Monóvar's real attraction: a place where the timetable of Spanish life has not been rearranged to suit visitors. Arrive with patience, a phrasebook and an empty stomach and the town will return the favour many times over.