I didn’t mean to move to Spain. I meant to deal with Spain.
You know—fly in, sign some papers, take a few tragic selfies in front of a crumbling stone house, flog it to a Dutch couple with a yoga mat fetish, then disappear back to Streatham and continue my very British spiral into middle-aged wine dependence.
But then Margaux had to go and die. Margaux, my mother’s aunt, who once threw a piece of Roquefort at a priest and spent her retirement arguing with postmen. She left me her house in Lladó. A village so small it makes hamlets look like bustling metropolises. She also left me three handwritten notes, one cracked ceramic rooster, and a key shaped like a medieval weapon. I assumed the house would smell of vinegar and regret.
It smelled worse. Like… goat mildew. With a top note of despair.
I arrived with a small suitcase, one good blazer, and the lingering sense that I was still someone who “popped to Spain.” By day two, I was knee-deep in bat droppings and emotional metaphors. The ceiling in the upstairs bedroom had collapsed “organically,” the plumbing had… evolved, and there was no actual toilet—just a sort of wooden throne over a pit. With sawdust. A compostingtoilet.
Margaux. You absolute witch.
I tried to sell the place. Honestly. I called a local estate agent named Jordi who turned up in a sleeveless puffer vest, stared at the house for twelve seconds, and said:
“You will not get rid of this before death.”
Then he complimented my shoes and offered me a fig.
That’s when I started drinking at lunch.
And blogging. Not in that order.
The idea was to keep track of receipts. To catalogue the “project.” But nothing went to plan. I couldn’t figure out how to upload photos. I wrote one entry about dry rot and accidentally published it to my old school’s French alumni newsletter. A former pupil emailed to ask if “fungal decay” was a metaphor.
It wasn’t.
Somewhere between the septic tank incident and the wasp nest in the stairwell, something shifted. I stopped wanting to sell. Or rather, I couldn’t be arsed to sell. And then I met Miquel. He sold me honey and didn’t make eye contact. It was thrilling.
The neighbours started waving. I started cooking again. I stopped wearing makeup but started speaking in three languages at once, usually in the wrong order. I joined the library. I learned the Spanish for “mildew” is “moho,” which is also the sound I make when I get out of bed.
And the blog?
The blog became… well, this.
A place to unload. A place to pretend I’m in control. A place where someone else might read this and feel a little less like a misfiled page in someone else’s story.
I’m Clara. I live in a half-dead house. I have an on-again off-again flirtation with my kitchen sink. I miss French cheese like it was a person. I am probably allergic to olives and completely addicted to olives.
I’m not sure what this blog is yet. A memoir? A warning? A travelogue for people who hate travelogues? But I do know this:
If you’ve ever stood in the middle of an abandoned house at 2AM with a bottle of white wine in one hand and a mop in the other, wondering if you made the worst decision of your adult life…
Pull up a chair.
You’re one of us.
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