It always starts the same way.
A viewing trip in May. Blue skies. Birds singing. The estate agent smiling like they’ve personally arranged the weather.
You fall in love with a “quaint” finca just outside a lovely Spanish village. Thick walls. Rustic charm. Original features. Character. Lots of character.
Nobody mentions insulation — because apparently that would ruin the romance.
Fast forward to your first winter.
You wake up one morning convinced someone has broken in overnight and replaced your house with a fridge. The stone walls are radiating cold like they’ve been storing it since 1847. Your breath is visible indoors. Indoors.
You light the wood burner, feeling smug and self-sufficient… until you realise it’s eating logs at a rate usually associated with Viking funerals. You start the season with a “reasonable” pile of wood. Two weeks later, you’re Googling “bulk firewood near me” like a desperate Victorian orphan.
Inside, you’re wearing three layers, a woolly hat, thick socks, and still can’t feel your feet. You’re huddled under a blanket on the sofa, clutching a mug of tea for warmth, questioning every decision that led you here. The dog refuses to move. The cat has joined you under the blanket without asking.
The Spanish neighbours, meanwhile, are wandering about in light jackets, perfectly fine, looking at you with mild concern — as if you’ve forgotten how weather works.
You start making bold claims:
“It’s a dry cold.”
“The walls keep it cool in summer.”
“This is actually quite nice, really.”
All lies.
By February, you’ve learned the truth: Spain isn’t cold outside — it’s cold inside. And your beautiful, charming finca has absolutely no interest in keeping you warm. It’s doing exactly what it’s done for centuries, and that’s letting you deal with it. Welcome to the reality of Winters in Spain.
And yet…
Come spring, the sun comes back. The house warms up. You forget everything.
You tell people, “Oh, winter’s not that bad.”
And the cycle continues.
