Dawn Punter

At 10am, four years ago today, we sat down at the Notary to sign for what would become our new life. It felt official, weighty, and just a little surreal. The process itself took three hours. Page by page, document by document, everything was read aloud and translated for us, ensuring we understood exactly what we were stepping into. It was thorough, meticulous, and, in hindsight, the perfect reminder of life in Spain, where nothing is rushed and everything has its rhythm.

We assumed that once the final signature was in place, we’d be handed the keys and sent on our way, new owners of a farmhouse and land we barely yet understood. But, of course, it wasn’t quite that simple.

The previous owner had other plans.

Rather than a quick handover, he insisted on personally escorting us around the local utility offices to transfer everything into our names. One by one, we navigated paperwork and counters, racing gently against the ticking clock of siesta time. We made the final office just minutes before closing, a small but significant victory.

And still, the day wasn’t over.

We returned to the farm, where he proceeded to walk us through everything. And I mean everything. Every switch, every pipe, every tree, every plant. Mechanical systems, agricultural quirks, unspoken routines that had kept this place ticking along. It was part instruction manual, part farewell tour. Only at 3pm, five hours after we’d first sat down at the Notary, did he finally place the keys in our hands.

We smiled, slightly dazed, but deeply aware that something big had just begun. We were now the owners of a semi off-grid farmhouse and a tropical fruit farm.

How the years have flown. Truthfully, it feels more like fourteen than four.

That first month, April 2022, was less about idyllic countryside living and more about rolling up our sleeves. Houses here are often sold fully furnished, which sounds charming until you realise what’s been left behind. In our case, it was a collection of smoke-stained, cigarette-burnt furniture, outdated portable TVs, broken microwaves, dusty, heavy curtains, and more religious artefacts than you’d see in any historic cathedral. Naturally, anything of real value, or use, had long since been removed.

Outside, the aftermath of the calima had left its mark. A fine red dust coated walls, patios, and every surface imaginable. Before we could even begin to think about renovation, we had to clean. Everything.

It took two months before we had one room… just one, that felt clean, fresh, and liveable. Newly painted, cleared of the past, it became our small sanctuary. We moved ourselves and our cat into that space, knowing the rest of the house would slowly take shape around us.

And it did. Piece by piece.

Eighteen months later, the building work was finally complete. By then, we weren’t just renovating a house, we were rebuilding a life. We’d left almost everything behind in our previous home in Almería, from furniture to everyday essentials, so we started again, for hopefully the third and final time?

A chair here, a table there, each item chosen with more intention than ever before.

Fast forward to today, and life looks very different.

I’ve learnt how to farm tropical fruit, something I never imagined I’d say. We’ve navigated the intricacies of semi off-grid living, from irrigation systems and water deposits to septic tanks and the often-temperamental nature of solar power and our quirky electric system. There have been challenges, plenty of them, but also a quiet satisfaction in understanding how everything works, in becoming part of the land rather than just living on it.

And now, finally, we have a home we can enjoy.

More than that, I have space. Space to think, to create, to grow something new. It’s where I’ve been able to expand my online cookery accounts and begin writing about food and sustainable living with real life experience behind me, not as a necessity, but as something I genuinely love.

Looking back, that day at the Notary wasn’t just about buying a house. It was the start of a complete reset. A slower, more hands-on, more intentional way of living.

Four years on, it feels like we’ve lived a lifetime here already.

And in many ways, we have.