Real Spain is just below the surface of Anglophilic Costa Blanca

Invaders have always loved the Costa Blanca.

In ancient times the Phoenicians, Carthaginians and Romans all found logical extensions of their
maritime empires ... and places that felt like home ... on this mountainous, beach-dappled Mediterranean coastline. Then came the Visigoths and the Moors. With the Christian "reconquista", so many Islamic residents were expelled that the Spanish kings had to re-populate the place from other parts of Spain. Today's coast is a mixed-nationality holiday and retirement community: about 60% English with robust deputations from the rest of the Europe.

You might dine here in a Japanese restaurant, run by a Chinese lady, full of Brits, with menus also printed in cyrillic, in an environment of well-curated affluence that looks remarkably like Palos Verdes Estates, California. It is the least Spanish place I've ever visited in Spain.

The appeal, however, is obvious and instant. We're staying with friends in a beach-side community called Moraira, almost exactly half-way between Valencia and Alicante on a point that juts out towards Ibiza. Brits may be familiar with the tower-block studded metropolis of Benidorm to the southwest; cradle of the package holiday. Moraira is a very different prospect. The centre of town is a bustling cluster of mostly-modern low-rise buildings stretching back from a yacht harbour. Shops below, apartments above. A main road stretches inland through a valley of grapevines, olive trees and clusters of older villages. The most eye-catching bits, however, are villa-studded hills rising on either side of the village, overlooking the sea. White walls, red-tiled roofs, green gardens and blue pools. The roads going up these hills twist and turn between walls, gardens and narrow drives. It's a good thing the traffic is light because the driving is not for the faint-hearted. On the northern horizon the villas stop before the  top of the wind-scoured headland, where an old watch-tower still stands sentinel. In the 16th and 17th centuries these warned the inhabitants of pirate raids. One assumes modern bandits would have a richer take these days than the poor fisherfolk they used to sell into slavery.

A winding coast road offers dramatic viewpoints and descents to small, sandy beaches protected by the steep coastline. El Portet is particularly popular: a laid-back beach bar is steps away from a golden crescent of sand. Homes of the rich and famous ascend in levels above you like an audience in an amphitheatre. Not a bad life. In the other direction, Altea's old town is making a bid to be this region's Santorini or Taormina. Though there's nothing of historic or cultural significance here it's an incredibly picturesque place to wander. At the top of the hill stands a church with showy blue-and-white tiled domes. The interior is a disappointing 19th century pastiche, but the exterior offers fine views while lounging at outdoor cafes. Black-and-white cobbles laid in differing designs form narrow lanes running between houses, showing off colourfully-tiled balconies and window surrounds. Geraniums sit in tiled window sills, spilling merrily through the ornate curves of cast iron grates. Steep lanes end in tiny plazas offering dramatic sea views. Properties are primarily either restaurants or shops at the ground level; the shops are mostly of the charming boutique variety. This is a place for jewellery, ceramics, works of art and flowing linen beachwear.

While it's easy for all the front-line mansions on this stretch of coast to dominate your view ... rambling haciendas jostle with Bond-villain modernism to grab architectural attention ... reality is a more balanced community that enjoys excellent value for money. Whether it's three-bedroom homes, bottles of wine or meat at the supermarket, prices are below what you'd find in the south of England. The French are here because it's so much cheaper than equivalent landscapes on the Cote d'Azur. Others tell similar tales. Inside the tasteful, small but well-stocked Pepe La Sal grocery the Brits can pick up Marmite and the Dutch stroopwafels for pretty much what they'd pay at home. While there's plenty of fine dining, there are more excellent value-for-money spots catering to the affluent pensioners’ desire to remain affluent. Conveniently, the international community defaults to English to get along.

Scratch a bit below the surface, however, and it's not hard to find the real Spain. Modern invaders have to cope with traditions of opening hours, lack of health and safety regulations and procedural red tape that remain deeply alien to their own traditions. While English may suffice for day-to-day interactions, Spanish is necessary if you want to dig deep into any topic. Drive just a few miles inland to towns like Teulada or Benissa and the pretence of internationalism falls away. Savvy locals haggle over vegetable prices in local markets. Martyrs suffering ghastly torments disburse guilt from golden altars in gloomy churches. (Teulada's, built to double as a defensive bastion in pirate slave raids, is particularly interesting.) Once past the hideous ring of modern apartment blocks so characteristic of many small Spanish towns, both places offer winding lanes overlooked by impressive 16th and 17th century architecture and charming courtyards decorated with cascading bougainvillea, cobbles arranged in intricate patterns and brightly coloured tiles.

Things get particularly alien with the local festivals. While you might occasionally spot a congregation parading a statue of a saint around town elsewhere in Europe, nowhere (except perhaps Sicily) does it with the same verve as Spain: lockstepped fellowships carrying towering platforms enthroning saints, robed penitents, flowers and fireworks.  In late April in Benissa, these processions alternate with running long-horned cattle through town. We thought we needed to check it out.

Benissa erects tall wooden screens and metal cages topped by viewing stands to create a winding run through town, perhaps 20 feet wide and 500 meters long. Things kick off with a group of young men running to stay ahead of a herd of about 10 longhorns charging at full pelt, similar to what most people have seen of the Pamplona race but on a smaller scale. Everyone ends up in an impromptu bull ring created in the square in front of the church, where the lads play a crazy game of tag before herders gather the cattle to charge back up the pop-up canyon the way they came. It's all quite jolly, as locals stand around having their evening cocktails and peering through the screens as the action comes by.

Then things got a lot darker, and more alien to British and American sensibilities. Locals excitedly billed it as the "one-on-one rounds". It is indeed one animal ... in this case, a cow rather than a bull ... but after a single runner led her to the main ring a whole gang got involved. She looked more irritated and exhausted than enraged or dangerous, and the contest was nowhere near equal. Young men eager to prove their machismo swarmed around her like a cloud of insects, shouting, waving jackets, swatting and kicking out at her, often from inside a protective screen of iron bars. We were instantly on the cow's side, though she never got up enough of a charge to truly endanger anyone. She just looked like she wanted to be left alone. These were the less exciting early contests, locals advised. They save the angry, aggressive bulls for late at night when the party is going at full strength. We didn't stick around.

Humans pitting themselves against bulls is one of the most ancient themes in our civilisation. It inspired our earliest art in the form of cave paintings. Ancient murals show us bull dancers in Crete, ancient tales tell us of the minotaur. Spanish contests with bulls descend in a direct line from these things, and are as close as any modern human will get to what Romans once watched in their amphitheatres. I respect the  local tradition, and I'm glad to have experienced something so tied to ancient history, but I won't seek it out again. This was too far from a fair fight for me to stomach, and I suspect it's the same for most of the international community in their hillside villas.

The Spaniard and the invader, the ancient and modern, the beautiful and the ugly ... they live side-by-side here in the Costa Blanca. Each respects the each other, seeming to blend together, but I suspect that just below the surface there's a profound, eternal Spain that will be here no matter what invasions the next 3,000 years bring.