San Pedro del Pinatar

The first clue that San Pedro del Pinatar is different comes on the boardwalk behind Playa de Las Salinas. Elderly Spanish couples, slicked head-to-toe in black mud, stand baking like unglazed pottery while teenagers queue for the same treatment. Nobody pays. The mud is free, the sun is free, and the only equipment required is an old swimsuit you never want to see again.

This is Lo Pagán, the waterfront barrio that most visitors mistake for the whole town. In reality Lo Pagán is just the western edge of a municipality that stretches across two seas: the shallow, lukewarm Mar Menor and the full-blown Mediterranean. Between them lies a knife-thin strip of salt pans, dunes and pine woods that still pumps out tonne upon tonne of sea salt the way it has since Roman times. Flamingos commute between the evaporation ponds like pink commuter trains, tipping upside-down to feed while cyclists freewheel past on the flat coastal path.

Where two seas collide

The Mar Menor side is a giant toddler pool. Water barely reaches the waist for 50 metres out, the slope is gentle and the wavelets are caused by passing pedalos, not weather. British families cluster here because children can drift off in inflatables without anyone ageing ten years. The price is wind: the lagoon funnels the levante straight down the valley, so a perfectly calm morning can turn into a sand-blasting session by lunchtime. Bring a rash-vest or accept free dermabrasion.

Cross the 400-metre isthmus at the Salinas visitor centre and everything changes. Mediterranean beaches such as Playa de Torre Derribada roll out in caramel-coloured arcs, backed by dunes and a skeleton 16th-century watchtower. The water has actual surf; body-boarders work for their kicks while kite-surfers launch from the far end. Parking is free along the dirt track, but arrive before 11:00 at weekends or you’ll be circling with the Madrid number-plate brigade.

Between the two shores you can cycle in fifteen minutes, yet the temperature drop can be 4 °C once the sea breeze cuts in. Pack both a hoodie and suncream on the same morning; you’ll use both.

The salt museum you can smell before you see

The Molino de Quintín, a white windmill with vanes like a Dulux advert, sits on the edge of the salt works. Inside, the ground floor still holds the original wooden Archimedes screw that lifted brine when wind was plentiful. Upstairs, an exhibition explains why the pans are pink (halobacteria, since you ask) and how 60,000 tonnes of salt leave the lagoon every year bound for Scandinavian roads. Entry is free; the smell of brine and diesel is complimentary.

Walk the raised boardwalk behind the mill and you reach the mirador: a wooden platform with fixed telescope aimed at whichever wader is fashionable that week. Avocets, black-winged stilts and the odd osprey put on a better show than any pay-to-enter zoo, and the only soundtrack is the click of camera shutters.

Mud therapy, Spanish style

The therapeutic mud has no queueing system, only etiquette. First-timers watch the regulars: smear the black stuff on joints, leave a pinky-clean patch for the smartphone selfie, then bake for twenty minutes until it cracks like old paint. A rinse in the sea follows, finished with an outdoor cold shower that feels like a tax on vanity. Dermatologists swear by the mix of magnesium and potassium; sceptics simply enjoy the spectacle. Either way, towels stain, so bring the hotel’s beige one.

What lands on the plate

San Pedro’s fishing fleet is modest—half a dozen boats still unload at the inner harbour—but the daily catch reaches the restaurants along the Paseo de la Cartagena within the hour. Order caldero, the local fish-and-rice stew, and you get two courses: broth sharpened with ñora peppers, then rice stirred through the reduced stock. It’s milder than Valencian paella and big enough to split. Mújol (grey mullet) turns up both grilled and salted; the roe, dried and grated, tastes like bottarga but costs half as much.

For unadventurous appetites, marineras—long bread sticks topped with anchovy and salmorejo—pair well with a caña of Estrella de Levante. Finish with nougat ice-cream from Heladería Artesana; it’s basically frozen Toblerone and has been keeping British teenagers quiet since 1987.

When the Spaniards arrive

San Pedro itself, two kilometres inland, wakes up properly for the mid-June fiestas of San Pedro Apóstol. A statue of the apostle is floated around the Mar Menor on a flower-decked boat while onlookers drink cuerva—a lemony iced cocktail that looks innocent and isn’t. The night ends with fireworks reflected in the lagoon and teenagers jumping off the yacht club pontoon fully clothed.

August is Madrid’s month; second-home owners triple the population and the Monday market spreads over so many streets that Google Maps gives up. Stallholders sell everything from €3 trainers to saffron threads, all at volume. Arrive before 09:00 or shuffle through the melee wishing you’d worn a hat.

Getting here, getting round

Murcia-Corvera airport is 30 minutes away by pre-booked shuttle (€35 return) or hire car. Alicante is further—55 minutes on the AP-7—but flights run year-round and car-hire rates are lower. Once in town, everything is flat; a €10 daily bike rental covers the five-minute ride between Mar Menor and Med beaches plus the 12 km coastal loop through the pine reserve.

Cars are useful only if you’re self-catering; the Consum supermarket on the edge of town stocks Waitrose-level essentials and stays open until 21:30, unheard-of in most Spanish villages. Parking at the beaches is free outside July and August; in high season the Salinas car park fills by 10:30 and the ticket machine eats coins with enthusiasm.

The honest verdict

San Pedro del Pinatar will never win beauty contests: the skyline behind Lo Pagán is a jumble of 1990s apartment blocks and half the shops sell inflatable unicorns. Yet the combination of two seas, free spa treatment and flamingos on your doorstep adds up to more than the sum of its concrete parts. Come in May or late September and you’ll share the mud with locals, not coach parties. Come in August and you’ll queue for everything except the sunset. Bring an old swimsuit, a windbreak and realistic expectations: the town is ordinary, the edge of it is not.