Renovating in Spain? Estas Muy Loco?

Ruin before it became our Stone house

After deciding to move to Spain, we embarked on a thrilling real estate search. We scoured all the European and Spanish real estate sites, including Idealista.com, Galician Rustic Homes, Lucasfox.com, and more. We both dreamed of owning a place with history and architectural charm—something we could put our own spin on. After all, we had renovated two homes in the U.S.; how hard could it be in Spain?

Except... we didn’t know the language, the contractors, the process, local permitting, or any other bureaucratic hurdles. How challenging could it really be?

We decided to inquire about a few listings we liked. First, we emailed. Then, we emailed again. And again. OK, fine—not everyone responds to emails. Maybe our messages were going to spam. So, we decided to finally call! One of the first agents we reached was a British expat living in Galicia and selling real estate. He shared plenty of insight but kept repeating the same refrain: “Don’t renovate in Spain.”

Between language barriers, labor shortages, red tape, and Spanish customs, he did his best to scare us away from a renovation project. After 25 years of living in Spain, his main wisdom was simple: buy a house that doesn’t need any work.

“It’s so creepy, I can’t believe we own this”-Fallene

Got it. We needed to find a house that didn’t need renovations—oh, and it also had to fit our budget, which meant looking at homes labeled “as is” or “needs work.” We were in a quandary.

You can read our older blogs about our property search, but let’s just say the mental gymnastics we went through to rationalize our purchase would have earned us a gold medal. Ultimately, we bought a property that included a livable house and an old stone barn, which we quickly dubbed “The Ruin.” We thought The Ruin was cool but didn’t initially discuss what we’d do with it. It was just part of the property—until we had an architect visit.

The old listing of our home, La Casa Del Castaño

Our intention was to update some aspects of the main house and we wanted a professional to guide us through those “updates.” Amazingly, neither of us thought of these updates as a renovation. More likely, we didn’t want to admit we were going to renovate in Spain. But once we started discussing the main house with the architect, we naturally turned our attention to The Ruin.

Of course, we wanted to restore it! A stacked stone barn dating back to 1880—who wouldn’t want to save it and do something amazing with it?

Somehow, all the advice about avoiding renovations in Spain magically faded from our memory. So did the warnings about Spanish bureaucracy—the very bureaucracy we had already encountered when flying back and forth to Los Angeles three times for our visas. Even with all that experience, we found ourselves looking at plans and imagining how cool The Ruin was going to be... someday.

We bought the property in January 2022 and started working with the architect in February. We also applied for the necessary permits. Having come from the small business world, where permits are required for almost everything, we thought we understood the process. How hard could it be?

We arrived in Spain in August 2022, eager to ask our architect, “Are the licenses approved?”

Six months after applying, the answer was no.

“Why?”

“How could this happen?”

“It’s been six months—what’s the deal?”

Turns out, Spanish bureaucracy is slow. Not only that, but we were in a small village with no full-time reviewers. People get sick, offices close, delays happen. We stayed positive, telling ourselves this gave us time to find the right contractor, refine our architectural plans, and work on the yard. Ultimately, we didn’t receive approval until early 2023—over a year later, which, in hindsight, was probably one of the faster approvals.

Cinder Block addition

Stacked stone is a hallmark of Galician architecture, and we wanted to highlight that. Once we had the permits, the construction company expertly maneuvered a massive front loader up our narrow street and inside the gate, ready to demolish the cinder block structure that had been cobbled onto The Ruin.

As demolition began, The Ruin’s front changed dramatically. We had to tear down in order to build back up. The front loader, a blunt instrument with its steel teeth and massive bucket, tore through the cinder block addition—but also impacted the stacked stone. The removal of the cinder block structure left our perimeter wall unsupported.

Not knowing the language while trying to express concerns about construction at your own home is a humbling experience. It’s also an exercise in trusting the process—and trusting the team. As we looked at the precarious wall, we frantically asked our project manager, “The wall is looming over the street. It looks like it’s swaying. Should we reinforce it?”

“No te preocupes, está bien.”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” they assured us.

So we went to bed.

By morning, the stone wall had crumbled, completely blocking the street.

Luckily, our street doesn’t see much traffic.

That was just one of many times we second-guessed the contractors, only to be proven wrong. These guys are experts. We quickly stopped questioning how they’d fit a massive machine, a load of bricks, or scaffolding up our narrow street. This is their everyday normal. Having a translator—someone who not only spoke the language but also understood construction and had lived in the U.S.—was a game-changer. Thank you, Jessica!

Spain has different building codes and materials, such as hollow brick and rock wool insulation. We had no idea how stacked stone should be cleaned, reinforced, insulated, or what the “cama de aire” in the foundation was for, so we stepped back and trusted the process.

The work they did with the stone was incredible—seemingly effortless. The original stacked stone walls from 1880 weren’t dug deep enough, so rather than lower the ceiling height, they raised the walls significantly, adjusting window and door openings.

New stone lintels and support pieces were lifted into place by crane as the masons carefully guided them. It was mesmerizing to watch. These weren’t newly cut granite pieces but salvaged stones from old stairways and interior walls. The masons shaped them with grinders, chisels, and hammers, making them fit as if they had been there since 1880.

As the walls went up and the roof was added, The Ruin took on a new name: “The Stone House.” It was no longer a ruin—it was becoming a home.

After the roof, we got to make exciting choices: windows and doors!

Deciding on materials, opening styles, and glass types made the house feel even more real. We were getting impatient—we wanted to move in! With the help of our project manager, architect, and translator, we kept checking things off the list. Radiant floors were installed, interior walls went up, and the electrical pre-installation was completed.

We even had a fun lesson in EU versus U.S. electrical standards. Thinking we were clever, we asked for quad outlets at every location—because you can never have too many, right? The electrician politely asked, “Why so many outlets?”

We insisted. “More is always better.”

Then he showed us a European quad outlet. It was huge. Unlike U.S. outlets, EU outlets are much larger. A quad would take up way too much space.

Turns out, we weren’t so clever after all.

Renovation education was constant. When we weren’t researching materials and methods, we were learning how labor was performed. The construction team arrived promptly at 8:30 AM every day. They were incredibly punctual. They took a lunch break but didn’t observe a siesta—at least not like the stores and restaurants in town. Their workday ended at 6:30 PM, typically Monday through Friday, with the occasional Saturday. We were always grateful to see them.

The construction company strictly adhered to holiday and vacation schedules. While we wanted progress to continue, we appreciated the workers taking much-needed downtime. We also noticed a pattern—when extended vacations like August or December rolled around, work would come to a standstill for a month or more. Questions about the budget or architectural measurements could also delay progress. So, our go-to answer for when work would resume became “Mañana.” When we were frustrated, it felt like it was always “Mañana” because we never knew exactly when they’d be back.

One thing we learned: the long-standing tradition of construction companies overestimating completion dates is universal. We became adept at deciphering contractor timelines. If we were told a project would be finished in October, we knew to expect it in March. We tried not to let it frustrate us too much—the craftsmanship was excellent, and we focused on the progress rather than the delays. What else can you do?

Now, we have a beautifully stacked stone house that retains the history of the old barn while incorporating energy efficiency, humidity isolation, and modern touches. It blends rustic charm with contemporary technology, making it our dream home.

We’re not finished yet. We’ve entered the second phase, tackling the “dirty work”—installing drywall, interior stairs, and additional plumbing fixtures. The process has humbled us, and we’re in awe of how everything has come together. Challenges have arisen, and more will surely follow, but we’re looking forward to completing the house in the next couple of years and finally moving in.