I thought I came to Spain for the adventure—flamenco, bullfights, tapas on every corner. Sun-soaked chaos. Instead, I landed in Pampaneira. A mountain village where Sundays feel like some kind of spiritual ambush.
It’s not the village’s fault. This “slow life” isn’t a slogan here. It’s religion. And I was the unbeliever, pacing around my kitchen like a caged greyhound, waiting for a bell that never rang.
First thing I noticed? The silence. Not calm, not peaceful—dead silent. No honking, no shouting, no scooters trying to mow you down. Just birds. Wind. And the nagging thought that I might’ve made a massive mistake.
I tried. Honestly. But I’m wired for London. I need motion, background noise, that ambient chaos that lets you pretend you’re in control. I used to wake up to bin lorries and domestic arguments. Here, it’s just the sound of your own thoughts.
So I did what you’re supposed to do: I went for a walk. Thought I’d “take in the mountains” or whatever people say in blogs about mindfulness. I stepped outside and saw one old man walking slower than gravity. I tried matching his pace. Two minutes in, I was twitching.
I wanted to shout, “Why are we moving like sloths on sedatives? Where’s the goal? What’s the destination?” But he just looked at the sky and then at me, like I was the one malfunctioning.
The shops opened at 9. Sort of. The guy who runs the bakery just stood in the doorway with a coffee, like he was blessing the day. No urgency. No queue. Just the sacred art of being slow on purpose.
And at first, it drove me mad. The stillness felt hostile. Like being stuck in a poem you don’t understand.
But something changed.
One morning, I sat outside a café. Ordered coffee. And for the first time in my caffeinated existence, I actually tasted it. Noticed the way the sun hit the ceramic. Watched steam curl into the cold air. I didn’t scroll. I didn’t rush. I just… sat there.
Funny thing is, I used to think I was adjusting just by rebuilding the house – patching the roof, fixing the walls, getting the place liveable again. But turns out the harder part is letting the place rebuild me. And that takes longer than any coat of paint.
That’s when it clicked: this is the point.
Not the to-do lists. Not the productivity. Just this.
Later, I sat on the same bench and watched a dog chase leaves down the road like it was training for the Olympics. No one stopped him. No one hurried him along. He was living the moment. I was watching it. And weirdly, I felt okay.
I’m still twitchy. Still learning. Some Sundays I forget and try to clean the whole house by 9:30. But little by little, the noise in my head is giving way to something softer.
The slow life doesn’t slap you. It seeps in.
And if you let it, it changes everything.
