We’ve fenced off the middle section of our land — the most fertile area where the horta and the well sit. With the ground freshly turned and blue skies overhead, it feels like the farm is breathing again.
After months of clearing, repairing, and slowly piecing things back together, it finally feels like we’re moving forward again. The middle section of our land, the part where the well and horta lie, has now been fully fenced. It’s the smallest of our plots, but it’s always been the most generous, with richer soil and a good water supply.
We decided to start here because it just made sense: this area can sustain both the animals and us. We’ve split it into two, one part for the sheep and goats, and the other for the horta (Portuguese for small vegetable garden). There’s something grounding about restoring this small balance after everything that’s happened. We've always grown vegetables here and it is extremely fertile, but for the last few years we have been too busy. However, this year, now that we live here, we began planting once again. Unfortunately all the food we were growing we gave to the animals so they had something to eat after the fire. Now we are starting over!
Earlier in the week, we had someone come in with a tractor to turn the earth. Watching the soil being lifted, aired, and smoothed out again felt like watching the land breathe. The deep brown of freshly turned soil against the blue autumn sky is always one of my favourite sights.
This week, Victor’s been out there with his hand plough. He’s shaping the ground, levelling it, and clearing the last of the stones. The weather couldn’t be better: blue skies, light breeze, warm but not hot, one of those perfect October days that makes you want to stay outside forever.
Soon we’ll be ready to start planting our winter vegetables, the hardy ones that don’t mind a chill in the air. I’m already imagining neat rows of potatoes, garlic, onions, and cabbages plus whatever else we can plant this time of year.
Standing there today, looking at the fences gleaming new against the olive trees, I felt something I haven’t felt in months, calm. For the first time since the fire, the land feels protected again. The animals have their space, the soil is ready, and we have a plan.
Little by little, we’re reclaiming what was lost, not just the ground itself, but the rhythm of working it, the trust that it will provide. It’s still early days, but this small, fenced patch feels like a promise of what’s to come.
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Our poor vines have had a rough few years — first the goats, then the sheep, and finally the fire. Surely next year will be their year… right?
The fire left our fields bare and our animals without grazing. With fences destroyed and hay stores gone, we’ve had to move the sheep and goats into a smaller pen while we slowly rebuild.
The fire came fast. But somehow — through courage, luck, and stone walls — our house survived. So did every single animal. This is the story of those terrifying two days, and of what comes after the flames.
