Alicante Travel Guide: Best Beaches, Old Town, and Day Trips

I arrive with salt on my lips and light on my shoulders, the bay opening like a page I’ve wanted to read for years. Palms along the seafront move as if they know the rhythm I need—slower, kinder, almost like a hand placed gently at the small of my back guiding me forward.

Here on Spain’s southeastern curve, where mountains lean toward the Mediterranean and neighborhoods step down to the water, I learn again how a city can be both harbor and horizon. Alicante is not something to conquer in a checklist; it’s a place to breathe in, the way you breathe after rain when the air smells clean and the day forgives what came before.

Where Sea Light Shapes the City

The coastline is the first geography I feel. Long shelves of blue, rooms of sun set between headlands, and a city that keeps turning its face toward the water. I walk the marina early, shoes whispering over stone, and watch the masts sketch small lines against a brightening sky. Short step. Short breath. Then a long, unspooling view of the castle above, reminding me the present always sits on older bones.

Mount Benacantil holds the fortress like a crown, while down below the Explanada de España unrolls its red-cream-black mosaic under my feet. At the southern end by a cracked tile near the kiosk, I rest my palm on the low rail and let the breeze carry a citrus-clean scent from a nearby café. The city feels both spare and generous, like a room with nothing extra and everything you need.

Getting Oriented on the Costa Blanca

This is the heart of the Costa Blanca, a province that gathers beach towns and mountain villages the way a bay gathers small boats. North are the resort curves, south the salt flats and quieter coasts; inland, ridgelines fold into valleys where white towns catch the sun like chalk. Alicante sits between it all—base camp and invitation.

Names begin to sketch my mental map: Benidorm bright with towers, Elche with its historic palm groves, Altea whitewashed on a hill, Torrevieja along its salt lagoons. Each is a short story you can read in a day, then come home to the sea again when the light goes soft.

Weather That Invites You Year-Round

Mediterranean weather writes the calendar here. Summers run warm and dry, the kind of heat that sends you into the water and keeps you there. Winters are gentle—light sweaters, long walks, the sun sitting low but still loyal. I pack more linen than I expect and leave room for a scarf I can fold into my bag when the evening cools.

Shoulder seasons bring the scent of wet stone after passing showers, and streets shine briefly before the sky clears. It’s good travel weather—the kind that lets you change plans without losing the day. A museum in the morning, the beach after lunch, a late walk under lamps that throw soft circles onto the paving.

Staying Well: Hotels and Rentals

Choices multiply when the coastline becomes a brand of light. Beach-front hotels and hill-view apartments, boutique stays in the old quarter, family places with kitchens that welcome late breakfasts—Alicante holds all of these with a practiced hand. I book early when the warmest months draw a crowd, and I stay curious: sometimes what I need most is not a lobby, but a living room where I can breathe between adventures.

Rentals suit slow travel. A small terrace to dry towels, a fridge for market nectarines, a table where I can write or map the day—that kind of space changes the feel of a week. I cook once or twice, then slip out for tapas when the streets begin to hum.

Promenade Mornings and Beach Afternoons

The Explanada de España feels like the city’s long exhale. I follow its wave-patterned tiles beneath rows of palms, stopping for coffee where the crema smells faintly like caramel and the spoon rests warm in my fingers. Musicians tune; a vendor lays out hand-worked crafts; the sea keeps time against the rocks beyond the port.

Later, at Playa del Postiguet, I wade where the sand begins to cool my feet and the air tastes of salt. Families settle into their patch of shade, couples drift in the shallows, a lone swimmer cuts a clean line across the bay. I pack light—towel, water, a paperback already soft at the edges—and let the hours find their own shape.

Crossing by Boat to Tabarca

Offshore, a small island sits inside a ring of clear water that looks drawn with a fine brush. I step onto a boat and watch the city recede: castle, cathedral dome, the line of the promenade, all flattening into a single skyline. Twenty minutes later I’m walking the streets of a walled village whose stones hold a cooler shade, the scent of the sea threading every alley.

Snorkelers slip into the marine reserve where fish flash like ink marks, and I linger above them on flat rocks warm from the sun. Short splash. Short laugh from a child nearby. Then a long float that makes time feel less like a schedule and more like a tide I can trust.

Morning salt air lifts as the bay brightens beyond the promenade.

Old Stones and High Views

Back on the mainland, I climb to Santa Bárbara Castle early, when the path is quiet and the scent of warm pine rises from the slope. From the ramparts, the city untangles itself—grids and curves, port and beach, roofs the color of clay. I rest both hands on the cool wall near a corner where a small crack runs like a vein, and the view feels older than my reasons for wanting it.

History here is layered rather than staged. You feel it in the shape of a wall, the angle of a stair, the way a shadow holds on the stone an extra second before it moves. The climb becomes less about height and more about understanding where the city keeps its memory.

Blue-Domed Calm in the Old Town

In the old quarter, a co-cathedral rises with a blue dome that catches the light like a held breath. I slip through its doors and into cool air scented with wax and stone. Candles thrum at the edges of my vision; footsteps hush across the floor; the day outside loses its edges for a while.

When I step back into the lanes, I let the streets carry me: Calle Labradores with its chatter, small squares where grandmothers talk beneath laundry, façades that peel a little and look more honest for it. A bakery opens its oven, and a warm sweet smell crosses the cobbles like a friendly rumor.

Evenings in Barrio Santa Cruz

The hillside quarter of Santa Cruz holds night differently. Alleys narrow; steps climb; lanterns lean out like small moons. I sit where a radio plays soft guitar and order plates meant for sharing—anchovies bright with vinegar, grilled peppers glossy with oil. The city becomes a conversation I’m grateful to overhear.

Later, down toward the water, bars fill with music that shakes loose the day’s last stiffness. I don’t chase the loudest room; I follow the one that smells like lime and mint, where laughter lifts but never shouts. When I walk back, the pavements carry the night’s warmth into my open hands.

Golf, Day Trips, and Small Pleasures

If a fairway steadies your mind, there are courses within a short drive that offer views to the sea or the hills; you book ahead when calendars fill, and you swing under a sun that can be kind if you remember the hat you nearly forgot. Inland, day trips lead to terraced valleys and clear reservoirs, cliff-side villages and viewpoints where the air smells of wild thyme.

Elche’s palm groves hold a hush that feels older than the road that brought me there, and Altea’s blue-tiled dome above white streets invites both camera and quiet. Benidorm, seen from a headland at dusk, becomes a line of light against the water. The joy is in the contrast—busy and still, bright and spare—each mood available when I need it.

Markets, Plates, and the Taste of the Coast

Mercados are my compass in any Spanish city. Alicante’s is a two-level thrum of color where I learn the day’s vocabulary in fruit and fish. I taste a slice of melon that drips down my wrist, buy olives that taste like the hillside they grew on, and choose a wedge of cheese the vendor cuts with a smile that says I chose well.

By the water later, rice dishes arrive like maps of the sea—thin layers crisp at the edges, saffron breathing lightly, mussels shining. A glass of cold white wine brings a clean, stone note that suits the evening. Simple food made with attention feels like a kind of love.

Moving Around With Ease

On foot is my favorite speed; the city rewards it with small discoveries I would miss behind a windshield. When distance stretches, the coastal tram links bays and towns at a pace that lets scenery speak. I choose a window seat and watch prickly pears and stone walls slide by, the sea returning and receding like a thought I keep remembering.

Taxis fill gaps, buses lace neighborhoods together, and rides between hill and harbor never take long. The airport sits close enough that arrival feels more like stepping into a continuation than starting from zero. Travel here behaves, which leaves more room for wonder.

When to Go and What to Pack

Come when you crave warmth and blue—summer holds you there. If you like your light softer and your streets less busy, spring and autumn say yes with a few passing showers and better conversations with locals who aren’t rushing. In the coolest months, the city keeps its doors open anyway, and you can have whole mornings to yourself on the promenade.

I pack for walking and water. Breathable fabrics. A layer for evenings. Comfortable shoes that forgive cobbles. Sunscreen that doesn’t fight my skin. A small daypack so my hands are free when I press them to the castle wall or smooth my shirt hem at the promenade rail while waves turn their shoulders and rest.

The Kind of Memory Alicante Leaves

Travel has a way of taking inventory of who I am becoming. In Alicante, the list simplifies: light on stone, salt in the air, a city that lets me be both quiet and alive. I learn that calm is an action; I practice it on a bench under a palm, on a stair warmed by the afternoon, in the shade of a blue dome where voices fall to a hush.

Before I leave, I walk the Explanada one last time. Short pause where the mosaic dips. Short closing of eyes to save the scent of the sea. Then a long, steady breath as the horizon widens and reminds me that some places don’t end when you go—they travel with you, the way light keeps returning to water, the way kindness keeps finding new rooms to fill.