A few weeks ago, we travelled to Asturias, a small province on the northern coast of Spain. We drove through the green mountains of Quirós to meet Marina, who lives in a modest house nestled deep in the valley, near the village of Tene.

She had given us directions: “Walk for a kilometre, and when the path bends, you’ll see the house below–a former stable with a hayloft.” That’s where we found her, living with Rodrigo, her husband, and their three children–Antón, Galo, and Alano–whom she affectionately calls her nenos.

They welcomed us into their home and their rhythm. Just for a day, but it felt like more.

They have built something here–not just a home, but a life anchored in the land, in the old ways, in care. They live with the landscape, not on top of it. It’s a relationship of interdependence, of mutual respect. A way of being that echoes back generations

Over lunch, Marina shared fragments of her story. She was born in a village house–the same one her father was born in. She grew up surrounded by family: grandparents, great-grandparents, animals, and gardens.

Rodrigo, too, grew up close to nature. “We always try to hold onto those good memories from childhood,” she told us.

They met young, studied art together, but even then, they dreamed of a life rooted in the countryside. “We came to this village with our first baby still in my belly. We rented a house, moved in, and soon the baby was born. That baby became the village’s baby. Everyone helped. That changed everything. We fell in love with this place.”

Not long after, a neighbour–also a shepherd–offered them the old shepherd’s cottage where they now live. Marina remembers the first time they saw it: “It felt like something I had dreamt. The river, the swing, the sound of the water... it was love at first sight.”

We asked her what makes this place so special. She thought for a moment. “The landscape feeds me. Like food nourishes the body, beauty nourishes the heart.”

They’ve learned from their neighbours. But also from memory. From what was passed down. “We were already familiar with some things–gardening, animals–but there was also so much to learn. How to harness a donkey. How to use a corza–a kind of sled cart, used because wheels don’t work well on steep terrain. We didn’t have a motor vehicle when we first moved in. We brought all the building materials up with the donkey. Firewood, food, everything. There’s an endless list of things we’ve learned.”

Now, Marina and Rodrigo are shepherds themselves. They have 70 Xalda sheep, an ancient breed native to Asturias. “We started with two ewes, two lambs, and a ram. That first ram–he was taken by a bear. That was a lesson too. Nature demands respect.”

Today, their smallholding is alive with animals: a donkey, a cow, chickens, horses, three dogs, and three cats. Their life is defined by care–of animals, of children, of plants and soil.

“From the moment we wake up to the moment we go to bed, it’s care. That’s our daily rhythm.”

Marina began knitting when her first child was born–simple pieces, made from the wool of their own sheep. She learned from the local women—how they washed, spun, and worked the wool. And from that, her project was born: La Flor Cerval–The Wild Flower.

“I wanted to recover something–both the resource, and the artistry that comes with it. The best raw material we can have is what comes from the animals around us. This wool already belongs to the landscape. It carries the territory within it.”

She believes beauty flows both ways–between the land and the wool, between the wool and the hands that work it.

We asked her about motherhood. Her answer was clear:

“Being a mother is joy, yes. But it’s also work. And purpose. It gave me direction–something greater than myself. I do this not just for me, but for us. For them.”

She hopes her children experience the same kind of freedom she did as a child: connection to nature, to animals, to land. To roots. “Bonds matter to me. I want them to know what it means to belong.” –how to hold onto ancestral knowledge, how to live in sync with the place that holds you.

From Marina and her family, we learned about continuity—how to hold onto ancestral knowledge, how to live in sync with the place that holds you. “To live here and care for this land, as those who came before us once did.”

Before we left, she said something she had already mentioned once or twice—but this time, with calm certainty: “I think the greatest lesson has been to trust in our dreams.”