It started with a bin. A compost bin, to be exact.
You’d think, given the sheer volume of carrot tops, egg shells, and withered herbs I produce weekly, that acquiring one would be simple. But this is Spain. And nothing involving paperwork, permissions, or local councils is ever simple. Not in the slightest.
I’d heard from my neighbour, Maria, that the town was handing out free composters if you signed up through the Ayuntamiento. “Just pop in, show your NIE, done,” she said, flapping her hand like it was nothing.
So I popped in.
Three visits later, I had accidentally joined a gardening WhatsApp group, been invited to a family christening, and somehow ended up being referred to as “la inglesa del compost” by a man who definitely wasn’t wearing shoes behind the desk.
The first visit, I forgot my NIE. Rookie mistake. The second time, I brought my NIE but didn’t have a copy. The woman behind the desk, Leti, sighed deeply, handed me a map of the town with two photocopy shops circled in red, and said, “Venga, Ann, rápido.”
By the third visit, we were practically friends.
She’d told me all about her cactus collection, her ex-husband (“useless with succulents, and everything else”), and had somehow pried from me the secret to my slightly-wonky soda bread. I promised her a slice next time I came in.
That third time, Max came too. I didn’t plan it. He followed me out the door and looked so hopeful I couldn’t say no. I tied him up outside but within five minutes, he’d charmed Leti so thoroughly that she insisted he be brought in to “say hello.” Which he did. Immediately. In the foyer. On a potted ficus.
Still got the bin, though.
Weirdly, this whole compost quest became a turning point. The WhatsApp group added me after Leti snapped a photo of my lavender and thyme and sent it to her cousin. That same cousin invited me to a birthday party (which involved more tortilla than I’ve ever seen on one table), and I left with three plant cuttings, a lemon cake recipe, and a vague plan to visit someone’s allotment next Thursday.
And now, here I am. Sitting in the garden, bin installed, herbs behaving, fuchsia finally blooming again after I gave it an aggressive pep talk. The Irish plants are holding on—not thriving, not sulking. Just surviving. Which is more than I can say for the rosemary, which staged a dramatic exit last week and collapsed in the heat like a 19th-century debutante.
The bin is almost full already. Satisfying, in a slightly deranged way.
If you’re curious, the town’s composting initiative is legit—apparently it’s part of the region’s effort to reduce waste and encourage eco gardening. You can read more here. Not that it’ll tell you how to sweet-talk Leti.
She’s a national treasure. And she wants me to bring her thyme scones next time. No pressure.