A town founded twice, a river that decided where people could live, and a Habsburg eagle on a Mediterranean coat of arms. Altea’s history explains a surprising amount of what you see today.
The most conspicuous emblem in Altea is a bird with no business on this coast: a Habsburg double-headed eagle. How it got here has been told for generations — and it turns out the story does not hold.
The Anglo-Dutch fleet first lay off Altea in 1703 and was warmly received. In 1704 the bay served the British fleet as a staging point for the move on Gibraltar. In mid-August 1705, during the War of the Spanish Succession, Valencian supporters of the Archduke landed here; the fleet had earlier left Alicante without any hostilities. On 18 August Dénia surrendered to the Valencian general Joan Baptista Basset, and Archduke Charles was proclaimed king as “Charles III”. Altea thus sided with the Habsburgs early on; the rising in the Marina began here. For Altea the war ended on the losing side.
From there the tradition of the double-headed eagle takes over: that the Archduke granted it to the town in gratitude. Guidebooks say so, websites say so, and so did this page until we asked. The municipal archive of Altea has put the matter in order, and the answer is more sober: the attribution to the War of the Succession is tradition, not record. No act of grant is documented.
More than that: Altea has no official coat of arms at all. It has never been approved or regulated either by the council or by the Generalitat Valenciana. What exists is customary use — the double-headed eagle attested since at least the nineteenth century, the background with the bars of Aragon only since the twentieth. The town hall today uses a logo showing a crowned double-headed eagle above four red bars on a gold field. We do not reproduce it here.
How far back the eagle goes can be dated to the year. A royal order of 30 August 1876 required every Spanish municipality to send in an impression of its official seal; most had arrived by 1878, and the roughly ten thousand impressions are kept today in the national archive as the Colección de sellos en tinta municipales. Altea’s is among them. It carries the double-headed eagle and nothing else — no bars, no shield, just the bird and the legend Alcaldía Constitucional de Altea. The Aragonese bars beneath it came only in the twentieth century.
Source: written reply from the Arxiu Municipal d’Altea, October 2026. The literature is listed under “Sources”; it can be consulted in Altea’s public library. The newspaper Costa Blanca Nachrichten has told the episode at length ↗, though there the grant is taken as fact without a source.
Two explanations compete over where the name comes from, and both have their supporters.
The Greek one traces it to Althaia, roughly “I heal”. It fits the tradition that Greek seafarers named the River Algar for the supposed healing power of its water, and that a Greek trading post of that name stood at its mouth. It is the better story — and the one you will hear most often in Altea.
Behind it lies the Greek althaínein, to heal. The marshmallow plant takes its botanical name Althaea from the same root, as does Althaea, queen of Calydon in Greek myth. None of which proves anything about the town. It only explains why the reading is so persistent: the word really does lead to healing, just not demonstrably to this coast.
The Arabic one traces it to aṭ-ṭalāya, which became talaia in Valencian and atalaya in Spanish: watchtower. The name would then have meant an elevated lookout point — of which this coast had many, against pirates from the sea.
Which is right is not settled. The Arabic derivation is linguistically the more straightforward; the Greek one is older in local tradition. This page presents both rather than choosing.
The Algar rises in the hills near Callosa d’en Sarrià, where its springs — the Fonts de l’Algar — remain a destination today, crosses the hinterland and reaches the sea in the bay of Altea.
It is not a river in the northern European sense. For most of the year it carries little or no water; after heavy autumn rain it can become a torrent within hours. That double nature shaped settlement: the fresh water made agriculture possible, the mouth offered a natural anchorage, and the floods kept people from building in the bed itself — they built on the rises beside it.
Early traces of settlement are spread across the whole municipality — rock paintings at the Vicari, Bronze Age finds on the Momai, the Iberian settlement and its necropolis at Altea la Vella. The irrigation system, the Séquia Mare, distributed the Algar’s water across the terraces and made the coastal plain productive. On today’s supply: Water.
The area was settled long before it had a name that has come down to us. The oldest traces are Neolithic rock paintings at the Vicari; from Iberian times come the settlements at Altea la Vella and on Cap Negret. Greek trade contacts and Roman remains have also been documented around the bay and along the lower Algar.
What is missing is a continuous thread. The finds show that people lived, farmed and traded here; they do not add up to a town with a history. That begins much later.
Under Muslim rule the area belonged to the lands worked from small farmsteads — alquerías — scattered across the irrigated ground. The name is traced back to the Arabic aṭ-ṭalāya, and the irrigation that later generations inherited was largely laid out then.
The watchtower reading of the name belongs to this era too: a coast under constant threat from the sea kept lookouts on its high points.
In 1244 the area came under the Crown of Aragon. What followed was not prosperity but three centuries of insecurity: raids from the sea, shifting ownership, and after the expulsion of the Moriscos in 1609 a countryside emptied of much of the population that had worked it.
Attempts at resettlement failed because of the insecurity of the time. A tower stood at Bellaguarda; below it, people came and went. Nothing here was permanent enough to be called a town.
Around the turn of the seventeenth century a small hamlet had held on in the shelter of the tower of Bellaguarda. In 1617, under the lordship of Jaume de Palafox, Marqués de Ariza, it received a second carta pobla: a licence to settle, coupled with the laying out of a walled town on the hill.
That is the birth of the Altea people photograph today. The 1617 plan survives in the street map itself — a grid on the summit, ringed by a wall with originally two gates, the Portal Vell and the Portal del Castell; the Portal Nou was only opened in the mid-eighteenth century. From the Portal Vell, Carrer Major and Carrer Salamanca climb to the church. That the town sits so compact and so high is not aesthetics: it is defence.
After 1617 the settlers also took up the land around the mouth of the Algar. That is how the partides came into being — scattered groups of houses with their own tracks, irrigation channels and chapels. This dispersal explains why the municipality is still a dense core surrounded by widely separated districts: the structure is four hundred years old.
Altea la Vella remained inhabited and is today a quiet second centre with an administrative office of its own.
The 1956–57 aerial survey shows it better than any description: the 1617 town sits almost alone on its hill, surrounded by the scattered partides and the terraces of the Algar. What came afterwards — the slopes, the housing estates, the coast road — is the story of the last seventy years. 1956–57 aerial survey in the Generalitat’s map viewer ↗
From the eighteenth into the early twentieth century Altea lived off agriculture: almonds, carob, wine and above all raisins, shipped north through the coastal harbours. The botanist Cavanilles described the district in the late eighteenth century as carefully irrigated cultivated land — the achievement of the Séquia Mare.
Fishing was the other mainstay. As all along the coast, phylloxera and the raisin crisis hit Altea too. Into the 1950s Altea remained a place that lived off the sea and off narrow terraced fields.
From the 1950s and 60s painters, sculptors and writers discovered the town. That artists’ colony still sets Altea apart from its neighbours: it brought galleries, an audience and, more importantly, a way of seeing itself that rejected the towers.
When mass tourism transformed the coast in neighbouring Benidorm, Altea kept its buildings low. That is one reason why two towns ten kilometres apart look so different. Later came a faculty of fine arts, the Palau d’Altea and a settled international population: today around a third of registered residents were born outside Spain.
Once you have seen how all this connects, you read the town differently: the hill is a fortress, the dispersal is an agrarian structure, and the river is the reason for both.
This account is a summary for everyday use, not a work of scholarship. It draws on:
The basis is a written reply from the Arxiu Municipal d’Altea of October 2026, together with the literature the archive itself names — available in Altea’s public library:
Much of what circulates on the internet about Altea’s history — on hotel websites, travel portals and encyclopedias — reproduces the same short text word for word. That a fact appears on twenty sites does not prove it true: those are not twenty independent sources but one copied twenty times. This affects the etymology of the name above all.
Here only archival work and the specialist literature count as sound. Where they disagree — the origin of the name, and the nature and location of the Greek settlement — the disagreement is left on the page and not resolved in favour of the prettier version.
Compiled October 2026. Where dates are uncertain they are given as approximate; where a claim rests on local tradition rather than record, it is described as such.
Type to search — procedures, offices, topics.