So yeah, we bailed. Yorkshire got too cold, we packed our bags, threw Bertie in the back, and headed for the hills—literally.
Not forever, obviously. Just long enough to let our bones defrost.
I love Yorkshire. I do. But winter on the moors? Come on. At a certain age, you start thinking, Maybe I don’t need my face sandblasted by freezing wind every time I leave the house. And that’s where Spain comes in.
Arrival: Bertie Acts Like He Owns the Place
First thing that hits you? Warm air.
Not hot—just that lazy, sun-soaked kind of warmth where you can actually sit outside without three layers of wool. You breathe in and it smells like citrus and woodsmoke, and suddenly Yorkshire feels very far away.
The casita is waiting for us—stone walls, terracotta roof, tucked into the hillside like it’s been here forever. Patricia’s already picking flowers, rearranging furniture like we’ve never left.
Bertie, meanwhile, is losing his mind.
Nose in every rabbit hole, tail going like he’s powered by electricity. He’ll have a full survey of the wildlife situation within 48 hours, guaranteed.
Mornings: Slow, Quiet, No Need to Do Much of Anything
Mornings here are exactly how mornings should be.
Fresh bread from the village bakery, some local cheese, thin slices of jamón that melt in your mouth. No rubbish toast from a supermarket loaf.
Patricia sits outside sketching, mumbling something about how “the light here is just different.”
I take my coffee, pretend I’m going to read, and just stare at the hills instead.
Honestly? Not a bad way to start the day.
Santiago: Pilgrims, Giant Incense Burners, and Tapas We Don’t Deserve
Santiago’s close, which means we end up there far too often.
The cathedral is still ridiculous. Spires, carvings, an overwhelming sense that this place has seen more history than I could ever wrap my head around. Inside, there’s the botafumeiro—this massive incense burner swinging from the ceiling. Every time I see it, I think, one strong gust of wind and someone’s getting taken out.
But let’s not pretend we go for the history.
It’s the food.
Santiago is a dangerous place if you like to eat. You order a drink and—bam—your table is covered in free food.
Fresh grilled octopus, thick stews, salty padron peppers, bread that actually tastes like bread.
I keep saying we’ll do a full post on it, but honestly, I just keep eating instead.
Afternoon Wanders: Bertie Finds Every Muddy Puddle
Back at the casita, afternoons are slow.
There’s a path just beyond the garden, winding through chestnut trees, mossy walls, forgotten old streams.
Bertie, as expected, finds every available puddle and throws himself into it.
Patricia finds a tree to sketch, I stand there thinking, Yep, I could get used to this.
The other day, we stumbled across a monastery. Tucked into the hills, forgotten, half in ruins.
Not quite Rievaulx Abbey, but solid effort.
Juan’s (Not Juan’s, But That’s What We Call It)
Evenings? Easy.
If we cook, it’s whatever we grabbed at the market—fresh fish, proper veg, things that haven’t been wrapped in plastic and shipped halfway across the world.
If we don’t? Juan’s.
Not actually called Juan’s. We just call it that. No idea what the real name is.
Small family-run taverna, locals who all seem to have been sitting at the same tables for 30 years.
No menu, really. You just sit down, and food appears.
Grilled octopus, hunks of bread, whatever’s in season, a couple of glasses of Albariño.
Bertie always gets fed.
We get the usual warm welcome, even though we’ve been away for months.
It’s one of those places where time doesn’t seem to move.
Nights: Fire, Books, and Zero Plans
Back at the casita, fire’s crackling, bottle of wine already open.
Patricia sketches, I pretend to read, but really, we just talk about Yorkshire.
Because we do miss it.
The moors, the castles, the same old walking trails.
But for now? This is home.
And honestly? It’s really not a bad place to be.
Until next time—salut from Spain!
