San Javier

The morning flight from Manchester lands at Murcia-Corvera just after eleven. Thirty minutes later, you're watching a bright yellow propeller plane climb above the lemon groves, banking left over a salt lagoon so shallow you could wade across most of it. This is San Javier—part farming town, part RAF-in-Spanish, part gentle seaside retreat that the brochures keep forgetting to mention.

Sea, salt and citrus

San Javier sits four metres above sea level on the inland shore of the Mar Menor, Europe's largest salt lagoon. The water averages 1.5 metres deep and warms quickly, reaching bathtub temperatures by late May. Spanish parents treat it like a giant paddling pool; you'll see three-year-olds splashing about fifty metres out while grandparents gossip on towels near the water's edge. The beach at Santiago de la Ribera—technically a district of San Javier—flies a Blue Flag, but don't expect golden dunes. The shore is a narrow strip of imported sand that gets crowded from mid-July onwards, especially at the western end near the yacht club. Arrive before 10 a.m. or walk ten minutes east towards the old fishermen's huts where the sand widens and the only noise comes from creaking masts and the occasional patrol plane overhead.

Those planes matter. The Academia General del Aire, Spain's air-force academy, has trained pilots here since 1936. You can't wander onto the base, but on most weekdays you'll spot bright training aircraft looping above the lagoon like mechanical swallows. Twice a year the Patrulla Águila aerobatic team practises overhead, painting the sky with red and yellow smoke. Stand on the promenade with an ice-cream and you'll get a free airshow that beats anything on Bournemouth pier.

What the town actually looks like

Leave the coast and the place reverts to workaday Murcia. The centre is a grid of low houses painted the colour of pale honey, their balconies just wide enough for a geranium pot and a drying shirt. The 18th-century church of San Francisco Javier closes for lunch at 1 p.m. sharp; the key-keeper will reopen at 5 if you knock politely. Inside, the baroque altar glitters with painted wood that has survived earthquakes, civil war and the 1970s trend for whitewashing everything. Around the corner, the Casa del Artesano occupies a former merchant's house where one room still smells faintly of esparto grass; local craftsmen run drop-in workshops on Thursday mornings—expect to pay €8 for a coaster you'll weave yourself and probably lose on the flight home.

Market day is Tuesday. Stallholders unload crates of lemons the size of cricket balls, artichokes with stems longer than your forearm, and tomatoes that actually taste of tomato. Prices are scrawled on cardboard: €2 for a kilo of lemons, €1.50 for a bunch of herbs. British accents abound—San Javier has absorbed expats since the old airport opened in the 1990s—but the stallholders stick to Spanish. Pointing works; so does the phrase "¿Cuánto es?" practised in the queue at Corvera passport control.

Eating without the sea view

Every guide mentions caldero, the fishermen's rice stew, but few admit it can taste like smoky porridge if the cook overdoes the ñora peppers. A safer introduction is the langostino from the lagoon—sweet, firm, served grilled with a wedge of lemon and a beer so cold it hurts your fillings. Try La Encarnación on Plaza de España (six langostinos, €9; no sea view, no English menu). For pudding ask for pastel de cierva, a weirdly delicious cross between custard tart and cheesecake that even fussy children finish. If all else fails, most beach bars will batter a strip of hake into something close to Friday-night fish and chips, but you'll pay tourist prices for the privilege.

When to come, when to stay away

April and late-September are the sweet spots: 24 °C by day, cool enough for walking at night, rental flats around €65 a night. Easter brings processions that shuffle through the streets to drumbeats—impressive if you like incense and hooded robes, impossible if you need an early night. August is relentless: 35 °C by 11 a.m., promenade packed with Spanish families, traffic crawling along the coast road. British forums rave about "300 days of sunshine"; they forget to mention the September levante wind that can fling your parasol into the lagoon and the October midges that thrive on salt water and bare ankles. Pack repellent.

Getting here, getting about

Murcia-Corvera airport replaced the old San Javier terminal in 2019—double-check your booking so you don't end up landing 45 minutes up the coast in Alicante. A hire car is almost essential; buses from Murcia city stop running at 21:30 and taxis after 22:00 are rarer than a cloud. Cycling is easy: the land is pancake-flat, and a paved path links Santiago de la Ribera to Los Alcázares in 20 minutes. Bike hire costs €12 a day from the shop opposite the yacht club; they'll lend you a lock and a map showing where the fruit stalls let you refill water bottles for free.

The bits the brochures miss

The Mar Menor is shrinking. Years of agricultural run-off have already clouded the southern end; occasional fish kills wash up near the golf resorts. Local campaigners post updates on Facebook—check before you book a villa on the southern shore. On the northern edge, the 5-kilometre promenade is wheelchair-friendly until you reach the sailing club, after which the paving gives way to packed sand and the odd uprooted palm. Bring sturdy sandals, not flip-flops.

Evening noise matters if you stay in the town centre. Spanish life happens outside: bars set up televisions for football, grandparents debate politics over brandy, teenagers circle on scooters until well past midnight. Light sleepers should ask for a room at the back or book nearer the coast where the only soundtrack is halyards clinking against masts.

Worth it?

If you want Marbella glamour, keep driving south. San Javier offers something quieter: a place where you can swim before breakfast, buy tomatoes that still hold the morning sun, and watch teenage pilots learn loops above a lagoon that sailors call a lake. Come with minimal Spanish, realistic expectations of the beach, and a tolerance for evening chatter. Leave before August, or stay long enough to join the Tuesday-market queue, and you'll understand why the Brits who land here tend to miss their return flight.