Fixing up an old townhouse in Pampaneira has been a mix of small wins, big setbacks, and a whole lot of trial and error. When I first stepped inside, the place had that kind of faded charm you either see as a project or a problem. The floors were uneven, the beams cracked with age, and half the house looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. But it had something. You could feel the history in the walls. That’s what got me.
The first few weeks were rough. I barely spoke Spanish, and Andalusian houses aren’t exactly built the way I was used to. Lucky for me, I met Diego—a builder who’s been working on houses in the village for years. He’s not a big talker, but when he does, you listen. One afternoon, he was sanding down one of the beams, running his hand over it like he knew every inch. “Chestnut,” he told me. “Local. This kind of wood has been used here for centuries.”
Then there’s Elena, who runs the tiny hardware shop. She’s got this way of helping you while making sure you know you need help. One afternoon, I picked up a tool, held it up, and asked if it was for digging. “That’s a plaster trowel, Robert,” she said, not even trying to hide her grin.
People here notice things. They check in, even when you don’t ask. One evening, I was working late, trying to get a doorframe to sit straight. I must’ve looked defeated because Rosa, who sells fruit at the market, stopped by with a pot of stew. No fuss, no big speech—just handed it to me and said, “Eat.”
This place works differently. It’s slower, but it’s not lazy. People take their time, but they don’t waste it. The more I settle in, the more I get it. It’s not just about fixing a house. It’s about learning the way things are done here.
I came to Pampaneira thinking I was building a new life. Turns out, it was already waiting for me.