The summer we watched the mountain burn.

When we moved to the mountains of Catalonia, we knew we were choosing a different way of life.

We traded city traffic for winding country roads. Our neighbours became vineyards, forests and olive groves. Summer meant long evenings outside, vegetables growing in the garden and the constant sound of cicadas.

Of course, we also knew that wildfires were part of life here.

Every summer there are fires somewhere in Spain. You see them on the news, hope everyone stays safe and carry on with your day. Until one day, the fire is no longer somewhere else.

It's outside your front door.

Too close

Waiting and watching

It started with smoke rising above the mountains.

Then came the helicopters. Then the firefighting planes.

Soon, our phones sounded with emergency alerts, roads were closed and our village was placed under confinement. We couldn't leave, and nobody could come in.

There wasn't much we could do except wait.

Every time the wind changed direction, I found myself looking towards the ridge. Every helicopter passing overhead made me wonder if the fire had moved closer.

I've never been so aware of the weather. I have never been more scared in my life.

Or so grateful for the people risking their lives to stop the flames.

Looking at home differently

When you spend years building a home, it quietly becomes part of who you are.

Every raised bed in the vegetable garden.

Every fruit tree you've planted.

Every jar lining the pantry shelves.

The outdoor kitchen where countless tomatoes have become pasta sauce and cucumbers have become pickles.

Standing outside during those days, I realised how quickly all of it could disappear.

Not just the buildings.

The memories.

The years of work.

The quiet routines that make a place feel like home.

It was a sobering thought.

The little radio that became priceless

Then the power went out.

It wasn't the longest power cut we've ever had, but it happened at exactly the wrong time.

Without electricity, we lost more than just lights. The television stopped. The internet disappeared. Charging our phones suddenly became something to think about instead of taking for granted.

Sitting on the terrace, I reached for a small solar-powered emergency radio that had spent years tucked away in a drawer.

I had bought it thinking, "One day this might be useful."

That day had arrived.

Our connection to the world

For hours, that little radio became our connection to the outside world. We listened for updates about the fire, road closures and weather conditions while helicopters echoed across the valley. Hearing national spanish news talking about our tiny little village in the middle of nowhere made me cry. Sitting on the front porch, seeing ash falling down in our garden, the packed bags in the hallway, ready yo be put in the car if needed. It all made me cry...

A decision I should have made years ago

For years, I'd been thinking about buying a portable power station.

Every time there was a power cut, I'd browse the websites, compare models, then convince myself it wasn't really necessary.

"We'll manage."

"We've always managed."

After the wildfire, I stopped making excuses.

A few days later, I ordered a Bluetti portable power station (Not sponsoring).

Not because I expect another wildfire tomorrow.

Not because I think the world is ending.

But because I realised that resilience is often about reducing uncertainty.

Knowing that we'll be able to charge our phones, power a few essentials and stay connected during the next outage brings a surprising amount of peace of mind.

Hopefully, it will spend most of its life sitting quietly on a shelf, never really needed.

And honestly, that's exactly what I'm hoping for.

The people who protected our home

The fire lasted 8 days.

While we waited and watched, hundreds of firefighters were doing something extraordinary.

Helicopters collected water from reservoirs throughout the day. Firefighting planes flew overhead again and again. Ground crews worked in unimaginable heat, often through the night, to stop the fire from spreading. These days we had almost 40 degrees every day (104F). I can't imagine the firefighters working in that heat, in protective uniforms, infront of a raging fire...

We'll probably never know the names of the people who stood between our home and the flames.

But we owe them more than words can express.

Their courage allowed us to wake up the next morning and carry on with our lives.

THANK YOU!

What changed

When the confinement was finally lifted, the garden looked exactly as it had before.

The tomatoes still needed picking.

The chickens still expected breakfast.

The sweet corn continued growing.

Life carried on.

Yet something inside me had changed.

I appreciated the ordinary moments more.

Walking Klaus through the garden first thing in the morning.

Watering the vegetables after work.

Drinking coffee on the terrace while listening to the birds instead of helicopters.

Those simple routines suddenly felt like privileges rather than habits.

Why I grow and preserve food

People sometimes ask why I spend so much time growing vegetables, filling shelves with jars and trying to build a well-stocked pantry.

The answer has never really been about preparing for disaster.

It's about creating a home.

A place where there is always something to eat.

A place where neighbours know they're welcome.

A place that feels peaceful, even when the world outside isn't.

The wildfire reminded me that we cannot control everything.

We cannot stop the wind.

We cannot stop drought.

We cannot stop fire.

But we can choose how we respond.

We can look after our little corner of the world.

We can help our neighbours.

We can plant another tree, sow another row of vegetables and fill another jar for the pantry.

Perhaps that's what resilience really is.

Not living in fear of what might happen.

But quietly building a life that is worth protecting.

As I write this, the sweet corn is almost ready to harvest. The tomatoes are ripening faster than we can eat them, and the pantry shelves are slowly filling once again.

Life has returned to normal.

And after everything that happened this summer, normal feels like a wonderful gift.