The listing had five photos. One showed a door, half open, possibly not attached to anything. Another was a blurry shot of a fig tree that could’ve been in Morocco or Milton Keynes. No kitchen, no bathroom. But it was cheap. Suspiciously cheap. And there was that word—potential.

They always say that, don’t they? Agents, sellers, those chirpy YouTube renovators in straw hats. Potential is a magic word. A polite way of saying: this place might kill you, but imagine how charming it’ll be if it doesn’t.

We clicked. We zoomed. We stared at the walls. “Maybe it’s not that bad?” Sam said. I nodded too quickly. Jamie shrugged and went back to his game. That was our due diligence.

The house was somewhere inland. Not Valencia city—further. Somewhere Google Maps didn’t care much for. The town had three bars, one bakery, and a petrol station with a surprising number of political flyers. But the price? We could buy it outright. No mortgage. No landlord. Just… us, a deed, and several unresolved construction mysteries.

We sent an email. Got a response two days later. A man named Luis. Very friendly. Slightly cryptic. Said the house had “been empty a while,” which we later learned meant squatters, bats, and one unexplained axe in the attic. But he was helpful. Offered a video tour over WhatsApp. The connection cut out halfway through, and he narrated the rest like a football commentator.

We said yes.

We didn’t see the inside in person until we were holding the keys. Which is, according to Spain’s official notary law, perfectly legal—if not particularly sane. (If you’re into the legal side, here’s the actual notary site: https://www.notariado.org/portal/en/home

The legal bit was harder than we thought. Forms in triplicate. Documents we didn’t know existed. NIE numbers, utility transfers, tax hoops. Spain’s bureaucracy has layers. Like filo pastry, but with more shouting.

We hired a local gestor to help. She was brilliant. Fierce in that way only women who’ve dealt with town hall officials for twenty years can be. She told us, deadpan, that the house had no certificate of habitation, but that it was “probably fine if you didn’t ask too many questions.”

When we finally arrived, three weeks later, everything looked… bigger. And rougher. The walls had gaps. The roof tiles were curling. There were two fridges in the garden. One contained what I’m pretty sure was a pair of shoes and an old sausage.

Jamie refused to go inside until we’d checked for scorpions. He wasn’t joking.

That first week was just damage control. No running water. A broken fuse box that buzzed like it wanted to explode. One window missing. Wasps in the gutter. A curtain of cobwebs in the hallway so thick it should’ve had its own postcode.

We didn’t sleep much. We argued about where the bathroom could be. Sam cried in the car once, then punched a wall and broke through the plaster. Jamie made a spreadsheet of “Structural Concerns and Possible Solutions,” which included the entry: “Living Room Floor – Might Actually Be Dirt?”

We started learning. Fast. About lime render. About moisture barriers. About the horrifying price of reclaimed terracotta tiles. I read EcoHabitar cover to cover, twice. (It’s an incredible Spanish resource if you don’t mind getting nerdy—link here:

https://www.ecohabitar.org

Sam found a forum where other off-gridders posted questions like “Can I put a shower next to a bread oven?” and “How do I legally collect rain if my neighbour is watching?”

Turns out potential means you’ll spend a full afternoon trying to figure out where that one weird smell is coming from and eventually discover an entire mummified rat inside a wall cavity.

But also—

Also, it means watching the sun rise through a window that didn’t exist last week because you just knocked that wall through with your bare hands and a borrowed crowbar.

It means turning the key in your own front door—even if it sticks—and knowing no one can tell you to leave.

It means building something stupid and personal and wonky. On purpose.

We’re still in the thick of it. The back room leaks. The electricity is patchy. The water pressure is a rumour. But the place is starting to feel like ours. Or maybe like we’re starting to belong to it.

We don’t have a five-year plan. We’ve got one good hammer, a pile of salvaged tiles, and a teenage son who’s started drawing up solar panel layouts in his sketchbook.

Potential. It’s a lot scarier up close. But we’re here. And honestly? That counts for more than I expected.