J.G. Ballard wrote some fine landscape piece on the architype of all Costas:

The mountains had withdrawn from the sea, keeping their distance a mile inland, Near Sotogrande the golf courses began to multiply like the symptoms of a hypertrophied grassland cancer. White-walled Andalusian pueblos presided over the greens and fairways, fortified villages guarding their pastures, but in fact these miniature townships were purpose-built villa complexes financed by Swiss and German property speculators, the winter homes not of local shepherds but of Düsseldorf ad-men and Zürich television executives.

And later

The retirement pueblos lay by the motorway, embalmed in a dream of the sun from which they would never awake. As always when I drove along the coast to Marbella I seemed to be moving through a zone that was fully accessible only to a neuroscientist and scarcely at all to a travel writer. The white facades of the villas and the apartment houses were like blocks of time that had crystallised by the side the road. Here on the Costa del Sol nothing would ever happen again and the people of the pueblos were already the ghosts of themselves.

J.G. Ballard ‘Cocaine Nights’ 1996

Though of course travels writers have dissected this world. Here’s the Spanish author Manuel de Lope describing the Valencian coast in winter:From Peñiscola to Vinaroz, all along the beaches, there is a continuous line of buildings with seven storeys, ten storeys, even twenty storeys. They are the hotels and apartment buildings of what one could call the tourism civilisation or the hotel civilisation, which has utterly colonised the strip of land closest to the coastline. Its broad appearance is that of an artificial cliff perforated with countless dwellings. It is difficult to imagine the reasons why people flock here, because undoubtedly their reasons are deeper or more inexplicable than the mere need for sun and sea. At that time of the year everything was deserted. It seemed as if radiation had killed off its inhabitants, leaving the few survivors aged. It showed the fragility of these seasonal human structures that without the slightest doubt will have disappeared without a trace within just a few generations.

Manuel de Lope “La Puerta Iluminada” 2003

Paul Theroux travelled all the way up the Spanish coast on his trip around the Mediterranean in “The Pillars of Hercules”..the debased urbanisation on this coast seemed entirely foreign, as though the whole holiday business had been foisted on Spain by outside investors hoping to cash in. .The Spaniards did not mock it, and they were grateful for the paying guests, for many years this was the chief source of Spanish prosperity. It was also remarkably ugly, and this was especially true in these out-of-season months. In full sunshine it might have had a cheap and cheerful carnival atmosphere, but under grey skies it hovered, a grotesque malignancy, sad and horrible, that was somewhere between tragedy and farce. And Spain seemed distant.
I felt intensely that the Spanish coast, especially here on the Costa del Sol, had undergone a powerful colonisation – of a modern kind, but just as pernicious and permanent as the classic wog-bashing sort. It had robbed the shore of its natural features, displaced headlines and gullies and harbours with futile badly-made structures. ..

The landscape was obliterated, and from the edge of the Mediterranean to the arid gravely inland slopes there were off-white stucco villas. There were no hills to speak of, only sequences of stucco rising in a hill shape, like a collapsing wedding cake.