A few weekends ago, we joined the Mediterranean Garden Society for a visit to the Palmeral of Orihuela—a hidden gem that, despite lying less than an hour’s drive from Gran Alacant, feels like a world away.
The moment we stepped through its gates, we were struck by the quiet majesty of the place: row upon row of date palms swaying gently in the breeze, their long shadows rippling over the earth like green lace. It’s hard not to feel transported—back in time, perhaps—to an age when palms were the lifeblood of Mediterranean life, when oases were built not of fountains and lawns, but of shade, water channels, and patient cultivation.
What makes Orihuela’s Palmeral special is not just its beauty but its story. This palm grove, one of the oldest and largest in Europe, has its roots in the times of Al-Andalus, when Arab settlers brought with them the techniques of irrigation and orchard design that would define much of Spain’s agricultural heritage. The Palmeral was not a decorative garden; it was a living, breathing system—feeding, sheltering, and shading generations of people.
During our visit, we learned that palm groves in Spain differ greatly from those in the Middle East. There, palms often grow in natural clusters around desert oases, forming dense forests that protect life from the harsh sun. Here, by contrast, the palms were planted with intent and artistry—aligned with irrigation ditches called acequias, interspersed with fruit trees and vegetable gardens. Even their fruit tells a different story: in the Middle East, dates ripen all at once to allow for a large harvest; in Spain, they ripen gradually, inviting you to pluck and taste them as they reach perfection on the tree.
But amid this beauty lies a touch of sadness. As our guide explained, what remains of the Palmeral today is just a fraction of its former expanse. Over the years, parcels of land have been given away or repurposed. Some palms were even uprooted and sold—to the Côte d’Azur, of all places. It’s quite possible that if you’ve ever admired the graceful silhouettes of palms lining the promenade in Nice, you were unknowingly gazing at the displaced descendants of Orihuela’s grove.
Other losses have been more subtle but equally damaging: plots converted into sports fields or car parks, new buildings nibbling at the edges of what was once a continuous canopy of green. The result is a landscape that still enchants but now whispers a warning—a reminder of how easily the balance between nature and progress can be broken.
As we walked back to the car, that story lingered with us. It’s difficult not to draw parallels with what we see here at home in Gran Alacant. Little by little, new developments appear—another road, another municipal project, another “opportunity.” Each one, taken alone, seems harmless enough. Yet collectively they begin to alter the very character of the place we fell in love with—the landscapes, the views, and the quiet connection with nature that make this part of the world so special.
Our intention is not to point fingers or place blame. Progress and preservation need not be enemies. But our visit to Orihuela reminded us that once something of natural or historical value is gone, it rarely comes back. A palm grove that took centuries to establish can disappear in a few short decades. And while there may be opportunities to plant new trees or build new paths, the original magic—the authenticity—cannot be replaced.
Last month we wrote an open letter to the Mayor of Santa Pola, hoping to start a conversation about these very issues—about balance, transparency, and the shared responsibility we all have to protect what makes this coastline unique. We haven’t yet received a reply, but we remain hopeful that dialogue is possible. After all, it’s through listening and collaboration that communities grow stronger.
Local communities thrive when they are invited to be part of the conversation. Residents, visitors, and local authorities all share a common goal: to make this region vibrant, prosperous, and sustainable. When dialogue is open and transparent, good things happen. When it isn’t, trust—and sometimes beauty—can quietly erode.
That’s why we came away from the Palmeral with both admiration and reflection. It is a place of lessons: a reminder that heritage is fragile, that nature has its limits, and that every generation inherits not only the land but also the duty to care for it. Orihuela’s grove may never return to its medieval glory, but it still stands as a symbol of resilience and renewal. With care and vision, it could yet flourish again.
Here in Gran Alacant, we have our own treasures—our dunes, our cliffs, our wild green corners that have survived against the odds. Perhaps now is the time to look at them with fresh eyes, to learn from the stories of places like the Palmeral, and to make sure that our own “home turf” remains a place where nature, history, and community can coexist for generations to come.
Because once the song of the palms fades, it’s very hard to bring it back.
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