Welcome to Benidorm: Purgatory or Misunderstood Paradise?

By Max Milano (Travel Writer & Photographer)

It begins, as these stories often do, with a pint of lager at 9 in the morning.

We’re deep in the heart of the British zone, inside a place called “The Queen Vic,” and the man beside us has just announced that he’s on his third pint of the day and still hasn´t had breakfast. His skin is redder than a bullfighter’s cape, and he swears that the Scottish breakfast fry up being offered at the pub costs more than his flight (probably does). He may have no shirt, but plenty of opinions.

You could laugh at him. Many do. But he looks happy. Happier than most people stuck in gray offices or squeezed onto commuter trains. Maybe, just maybe, this sunburned soul is onto something. But he’s not alone. The boardwalk on this side of the beach is populated entirely by guys like him. Middle-aged, leathery, connoisseurs of lager and loutish. Some are more on the geriatric side, scooting up and down the beach on mobility scooters like a Walmart on the beach gone wild. Once Britannia ruled the waves. Today, it still rules Benidorm (or at least half of it).

But what is Benidorm, really? A party town full of high-rises, fake tattoos, and weak lager? Or is it something more? A misunderstood slice of Spain that deserves a second look?

That’s why we came. You don’t have to. But we did. And we brought our cameras.

I’m Max Milano, travel writer and shutter-clicking nomad for GuiriGuru.com. I chase travel stories across Spain, from mountain towns to coastal corners. If you’re done with dry guidebooks and want the true, messy, fun, and lived-in version of Spain, check out GuiriGuru.com and start living like the locals do.

The Cross of Benidorm: Welcome to Hell, Said the Priest

The story of Benidorm’s Cross sounds like fiction, but it’s as true as the hangovers you’ll find on Sunrise Beach.

Back in 1962, before Benidorm became the land of all-inclusive deals and plastic pint glasses, it was just a sleepy fishing village. The fishermen knew the sea and little else. Then the tourists came. They brought bikinis, beer, and behavior that made one local priest lose his holy mind.

He threatened to erect a giant sign at the town entrance reading, “Welcome to Hell.” It was not meant as a joke. After some heated negotiations, the priest accepted a compromise. Instead of the sign, he built a cross. A big one. He had the local fishermen carry it up the mountain in a solemn procession. It was supposed to scare off sin. Or at least slow it down.

Sixty years later, the cross still stands. The sinners? Still flowing freely down below. The cross didn’t work. But the view up there is fantastic.

A Tale of Two Beaches

Benidorm feels like two cities trying to ignore each other while sharing the same beach.

Sunrise Beach is where the Brits land. Not literally, but emotionally. You can feel the pub energy by breakfast time. Music thumps from open bars. Stag parties roam the streets wearing matching shirts with slogans they’ll regret by lunchtime. The promenade is one long parade of laughter, drinking, karaoke, and sunburn.

You’ll find cafes selling full English breakfasts and fish and chips. You’ll hear football chants, see inflatable flamingos, and wonder if you’re in Spain or Blackpool with better weather. It’s loud. It’s wild. It’s unapologetic. For some, it’s heaven. For others, it’s a headache. But either way, it’s part of the show.

Just across town lies another world entirely.

Sunset Beach belongs to the Spanish. The music here is soft. The voices lower. The smell is more grilled sardines than sun lotion. Families gather under umbrellas. Couples sip vermouth and stare out at the calm Mediterranean. Kids dig in the sand while abuelos read the paper and keep one eye on them.

This beach is for those who come to relax, not rage. The water sparkles. The air feels calmer. You get the sense that time here moves slower, like a good Spanish lunch. You won’t see many hen parties. But you’ll hear the clink of wine glasses and polite conversation. Sunset Beach reminds you that Benidorm didn’t start as a party town. It started as a getaway. For many, it still is.

Benidorm Old Town: Where the Past Still Walks

Between these two worlds sits something altogether different. A ghost of the past. A heartbeat under the noise. Benidorm Old Town.

This part of the city still remembers what it was before the package deals arrived. It remembers the Moors. The fishermen. The markets. The quiet. You can see it in the narrow alleys and the worn-down steps. You feel it when you duck into the shadowy corners lined with tiny tapas bars and hand-painted tiles.

The town curves upward toward a viewpoint where a Moorish fortress once stood. Now it offers a sunset panorama that could make a cynic cry. From this point, the whole city stretches out in neon and sand and sea. When the sky turns orange and the water goes pink, you’ll forget the noise for a while. It’s magic, and it’s real.

At dusk, something else happens. The locals come out. The older ones. The ones who have seen it all and still love this place. They stroll through the old town arm in arm. No hurry. No phones. Just the ritual of being out in the cool evening air. Watching them is like watching a prayer. Soft. Human. Unshakable.

Eat Like a Local In The old Town: Crusty Tapas and Hot Mussels

Forget the neon signs shouting: “Best Burger in Town.” Skip the laminated menus showing pictures of every dish in seven languages. The best food in Benidorm is hiding in plain sight.

When in the Old Town, look for the bars where the napkins get tossed on the floor and the waiter calls you jefe without knowing your name. That’s where the good stuff is.

Seafood here is a religion. Mussels that steam in garlic and wine. Grilled prawns with a squeeze of lemon. Baby squid that crackle on the plate like they’re still alive. The flavors are simple, bold, and honest. Like the town itself.

Sit long enough at one of these old-town joints, and a local will probably talk to you. Might be about football. Might be about Franco or even the current Prime Minister.  Might be about the proper way to cook clams. Nod. Smile. Order another vermouth. You’re doing it right.

The Secret to Doing Benidorm Right Way

Here’s how to make the most of this gloriously confusing place.

Start your day with a walk. Go to the cross if you’re feeling energetic. You’ll earn your breakfast. Then hit Sunrise Beach for people-watching. It’s free, and it’s the best reality show you’ll ever see.

In the heat of the afternoon, escape to Sunset Beach. Find a patch of sand or a shaded table. Order something cold. Read. Watch. Exhale.

Later, drift into Old Town. Wander until you’re lost. Smell things. Follow the scent of frying garlic. Eat something you can’t pronounce. Stay out later than you meant to.

Feel free to buy a cheap hat or dance with strangers. To take blurry photos. Laugh at yourself. Say yes more than no.

But whatever you do, respect the place. Respect the people who live here all year. Remember you’re visiting their home, even if it feels like a theme park. If you can do that, they’ll respect you right back.

So, Is Benidorm Hell? Purgatory? Or Just Hilarious?

That priest back in 1962 thought Benidorm was on the road to damnation. Maybe he was right. Or maybe he didn’t know how to dance.

Benidorm is ridiculous. It’s brash and strange and full of contradictions. But it’s also full of life. There’s nowhere else quite like it in Spain.

It’s not for everyone. And that’s fine. But don’t write it off until you’ve seen both sides. Until you’ve had one foot in the foam party and the other in a quiet bar at sunset. Until you’ve had a chat with a shirtless tourist and a stoic abuela on the same day.

Benidorm is all of it. The noise. The calm. The chaos. The peace. The people who come for a week and never leave. The locals who never left in the first place. It’s easy to mock. Harder to understand. And impossible to forget.

Thousands of Spanish tourists keep coming back every year. They avoid the British side like it’s radioactive, sure. But they still love it. And maybe they’re onto something too.

So, if someone sneers when you say you went to Benidorm, just smile. You saw it. You lived it. You got the T-shirt and the sunburn. And you’ll be back.

For more offbeat, brutally honest travel stories and expat survival tips, head to GuiriGuru.com and start living Spain from the inside out.

Max Milano is a travel writer and photographer based in Los Angeles, California, and Valencia, Spain. His latest photography book, Mexico City Noir, Life Under The Volcanoes, is Available on Amazon. His photographs are available at MaxMilanoPix.