I didn’t mean to move here. Not a destiny‑story, just… didn’t think it through. Saw a photo of the Sierra de Almijara in late winter, needed out of London, and—well, I booked a flight before I could overthink it.
It was odd at first. Too quiet. Proper quiet. Not the peaceful kind but the “hear-your-own-breathing” kind. No ambulances, no traffic hum—just a dog barking somewhere uphill and a chattering magpie at dawn that sounded like it was laughing at me. I filled the silence by walking. Walked up slopes so steep they felt endless, wandered into villages where elders paused and blinked at me—curious, not unkind.
A few weeks in, the quiet stopped being a thing. It just… shifted. My mind relaxed. I don’t even notice the silence anymore. It became a companion.
Then I saw the house.
Not a fixer-upper fantasy—just a battered stone cottage with cracked walls, a mossy gutter, and a front door hanging on two hinges. I almost walked past. Then I turned back. Maybe it was waiting for me.
Didn’t rush anything. No architects, no mood boards—just me, a borrowed toolbox, and a list of leaks to patch. Took out broken glass, replaced a rotting beam, fixed the creaky gate so it doesn’t slam in the wind. I’d watch the plaster dust fall in the morning light, thinking: is this stupid, or exactly what I needed?
Then I woke one morning, and the kitchen smelled like coffee and sawdust instead of damp mildew. The old walls rattled less. I stood out on the terrace, gazing at the Sierra de Tejeda, and thought: this, right here, feels like maybe home.
Still haven’t unpacked everything. I don’t have a five‑year plan. But I wake up. I drink the strong café con leche. I breathe in mountain air. And I don’t feel like I need anywhere else to be—just this slightly ramshackle place, and me, and whatever comes next. And that is enough. For now.
