Bruno Delgado

When I moved out of the apartment in Lisbon, Portugal, the last thing I expected was to end up on a small farm near Beja. It’s been three years since the divorce, and honestly, the city had become too expensive for me anyway. Being a freelance architect, I had the freedom to work anywhere, and with rent prices skyrocketing, it felt like the right time to make a change. So, I sold off everything I had, took out a loan, and bought this old, run-down farm.

I probably should’ve known better—the renovation was a nightmare. There were days when I was knee-deep in rubble, wondering if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Thankfully, my son stepped in. He’s 25, a trained carpenter, and without his help, I doubt I’d be writing this from a comfortable, warm house. We spent months working side by side, tearing things down and rebuilding. The roof, the walls, the wiring—he knew what he was doing, and I was just trying to keep up.

Now the place is unrecognizable from what it was. I’ve got solar panels on the roof, a well in the yard, and two hectares of land where I grow my own vegetables. Even got a few chickens scratching around out back. It’s hard work. Far harder than I imagined. My body isn’t what it used to be—I’m 53, after all, and there are days when my back reminds me of every year.

My son’s back in Lisbon now, and I miss having him around, but I’ve got good company. My neighbor, Clara, drops by often, and we’ve become close. Who knows where it’ll go? I’m not in any rush. This life I’ve built—this quiet, simple life—it’s enough for now. I’m exhausted by sunset most days, but it’s a good kind of tired. One that lets me sleep deeply, waking up with the sun and the birds. It’s not the life I had planned, but it’s a life that’s mine, and that’s something.