Eight Years in a Cave: How Rural Spain Became Home
Back in April, I wrote about those first bewildering days in rural Spain—wandering around Castilléjar like a lost tourist, desperately searching for a kettle and some semblance of civilisation, only to discover that reception (both mobile and social) was essentially non-existent. That piece ended with me sitting in the cool sanctuary of the cave rental, absolutely knackered, wondering what the hell I’d got myself into.
Rural Spain Recce
Spain was never really a mystery to me, having holidayed in Ibiza and many of the coastal locations well trodden by tourists. However, this part of Spain, rural Spain, was a whole new ball game.
Eight years on, I can tell you: best decision we ever made.
Living in the 1970s (With Wi-Fi)
There’s this peculiar temporal displacement that happens when you live out here. The pace of life exists somewhere in the mid-1970s—before everyone became tethered to their phones, before same-day delivery, before the world decided that busy was a virtue. People still wander to the village square for a chat. Shops close for three hours at lunch because, well, it’s lunch (siesta time). The concept of “hustle culture” would be met with a bemused shrug and possibly a glass of wine.
But here’s the thing: we’ve got electricity. We’ve got running water. We’ve got internet that, whilst not winning any speed awards, is perfectly adequate for staying connected to the world when we choose to be. It’s not primitive living—it’s selective living. We’ve cherry-picked the best bits of modernity and grafted them onto a lifestyle that refuses to worship at the altar of constant urgency.
The cave itself, where we settled in one in Fuente Nueva, near Orce, is the real genius of the arrangement. When it’s 60°C outside—and yes, it genuinely gets that absurd in high summer—it’s a steady 18°C inside. No air conditioning required. The thick rock walls that were carved out generations ago provide a natural climate control system that makes our energy bills laughable compared to what we’d be paying in the UK. In winter, it works in reverse: whilst it might be freezing outside, the cave retains its gentle warmth. It’s like living inside a very large, very sophisticated thermos flask.
People often ask if it feels claustrophobic. It doesn’t. If anything, there’s something profoundly calming about being enveloped by the earth itself. The silence is different too—not the absence of sound, but the absence of mechanical sound. No traffic hum, no sirens, no distant motorway drone. Just wind, birds, and occasionally our neighbour’s goats having opinions about something.
The Village That Has Everything (And Nothing)
That village I mentioned in April—Castilléjar, the one I traipsed to in search of a bloody kettle—was our lifeline for 6months. We then moved to another rural location, as mentioned above. It’s about 9km from us, which sounds like nothing until you remember that Spanish villages have a pathological need to be built on the most inconvenient hills possible. But it’s worth every undulation.
The weekly market is where the magic happens. Every Friday, the square transforms into this glorious chaos of local producers selling vegetables that would never make it onto a Tesco shelf. Tomatoes with character—lumpy, misshapen, the colour of a proper sunset. Courgettes that spiral like they’ve had a few too many. Peppers that look like they’ve been drawn by someone who only vaguely remembers what a pepper looks like.
And the flavour. Christ, the flavour.
Supermarkets have spent decades training us to accept perfect-looking, perfectly bland produce. Out here, you get the opposite: vegetables that look like they’ve lived a bit, but taste like they were picked that morning (because they were). The tomatoes actually taste of tomato. The lettuce has texture and bite. The aubergines don’t just surrender to mush the moment they see a pan.
Beyond the market, the village has pretty much everything you need. A butcher who knows exactly which cut you want before you’ve finished asking (although we still have to learn the differences in cuts that we had in the UK). Bakeries where the bread is still warm at 10 am (the focus time to be in the village when most shops are open, and the local Post Office opens for its daily 1 hour). A couple of small supermarkets for the basics. A pharmacy. A bank (though we barely use it). A few bars where the locals nurse beers and put the world to rights.
It’s not Waitrose. It’s better than Waitrose.
The Economics of Escape
Let’s talk money, because that’s the bit that makes people’s eyes widen.
Our cost of living out here is roughly a third of what it was in the UK. Maybe less, depending on how disciplined we are about not buying wine by the crate (not very). The cave was a fraction of what we’d have paid for a damp terrace in Hull. Council tax is negligible. Utilities are cheap, partly because the cave does half the work for us.
Food costs are absurd in the best way. A week’s worth of vegetables from the Tuesday market might set you back €15 if you’re buying like you’re hosting a dinner party. Meat from the butcher is a similar story—€20 buys you enough for multiple meals, and it’s actual quality, not reconstituted sadness in plastic wrap.
Even the luxuries are affordable. A meal out for two, including wine, rarely tops €40 unless we’re being properly decadent. A decent bottle of local wine at the supermarket? €3-5. Olive oil—the good stuff, pressed by someone you could feasibly meet—is cheaper than the rubbish Tesco’s own brand.
And then there’s the timing.
We moved in 2017, just before Brexit turned the UK into a slow-motion car crash of bureaucratic incompetence and economic self-harm. We got in under the wire, securing our residency rights before everything became a nightmare of visa applications and proof-of-income requirements. We watched from a distance as the pound tanked, as food prices soared, as energy bills became a national crisis.
I’m not gloating. Or rather, I’m trying not to gloat, but it’s difficult when you’re sitting in your naturally climate-controlled cave, having just spent €20 on enough fresh vegetables to feed a small army, whilst your mates back home are choosing between heating and eating.
We got lucky. Obscenely lucky. And every time I read about another crisis, another price hike, another demoralising policy decision, I’m reminded just how lucky.
What We’ve Learned
Eight years is long enough to stop being tourists and start being residents. Long enough to understand that the slow pace isn’t laziness; it’s sanity.
We’ve learned that community matters more when there are fewer people. That eating seasonally isn’t a middle-class affectation—it’s just how life works when you’re surrounded by farms. That doing less, more slowly, doesn’t make you less productive; it makes you less miserable.
Mostly, we’ve learned that happiness isn’t about having more—it’s about needing less.
I still think about those first few days sometimes. Wandering around, lost and sweaty, unable to find a kettle, wondering if I’d made a catastrophic mistake. The version of me that sat in that cave rental, exhausted and uncertain, would be relieved to know how things turned out.
We’re still here.
Still in the cave.
Still grateful we made the jump before the door slammed shut.
If you’re reading this from the UK, probably wrapped in a blanket, wondering if your energy bill will require a second mortgage—it’s not too late. Rural Spain is still here. The caves are still cool in summer and warm in winter (log burners help with the latter lol). The vegetables are still weird-looking and delicious.
Though I’d recommend finding out where the kettle shop is before you arrive.
Until Next Time
Sounds idyllic!
Congratulations! You appear to have found a marvelous alternative to the UK! Please tell us more about the cave itself. Does it have a front door that locks? What is the quality of the floors? How about the running water (toilet, sink, bath/shower)?