The end of the country house: rural plots no one wants to inherit

The end of the country house: rural plots no one wants to inherit

A faded "for sale" sign and a phone that no longer answers. Around it, a half-collapsed fence, a dry vegetable garden, and a 10 x 6 meter pool that used to be filled with well water. This is the scene left behind during the summer in the Spanish countryside of Almería and Valencia, raising an uncomfortable question: who actually wants to inherit a country house built by hand by their parents? The answer from those close to the phenomenon is blunt: fewer and fewer people, and almost none from the generation that should be inheriting them.

The diagnosis is economic, not sentimental. Maintaining a second home in the middle of nowhere costs money, time, and travel, and the math doesn't add up for a young person working in the city. The rural exodus has now lasted half a century and the emotional connection to those walls has broken. What was freedom for some is a burden for others.

The cost of maintaining an abandoned country house

The first blow comes with maintenance. A rural home has more elements prone to damage than a flat: leaks, cracks, paint, fencing, and hedges that need pruning. Then there is security. An isolated villa is an easy target, with reports of break-ins, broken windows, and cut wires. The to-do list never ends.

The pool deserves its own chapter. A 10 x 6 x 1.5 meter pool holds 95,000 liters of water, according to common calculations. In winter, it becomes a useless hole that must be emptied, covered, or filled with gravel. Those who have made up their minds suggest removing it to create an outdoor storage area.

Then there is the energy cost. Heating and cooling a poorly insulated house is incredibly expensive with current electricity, gas, and diesel prices. The growing alternative is to insulate only the areas actually in use rather than trying to climate-control 250 square meters as a single unit.

Why young people do not want to inherit family homes

The generational argument is the most frequent. Some claim that the new generations don't know how to mix mortar, have never held a hoe, and would struggle with a simple roll of wire. The phrase that sums up the clash: before, being a man meant working twelve hours, raising a family, and paying a 14% mortgage; now, it's going to the gym. The sarcasm is heavy, but it points to a reality: the transmission of trades and skills has been broken.

Others offer a different perspective. It is not that youth are incapable, but that their life priorities have changed. If they want a rural experience, they rent a house for a weekend to enjoy the pool, BBQ, and forest without the burden of ownership. An inherited house brings work and expenses; a rental brings only pleasure.

The lack of services also weighs heavily. Without electricity, running water, or local employment, these cabins rely on petrol generators and wells of questionable legality. From this viewpoint, it is not strange that they are being sold, but rather that anyone keeps them.

The real price of a rural plot: between a gift and a palace

Here, consensus breaks down. Some argue these plots are sold for next to nothing, while others warn that owners are in no rush. One case illustrates this: a country house has sat empty for six years, but there is no intention to sell or give it away. The annual tax is negligible—ten euros or less—so maintaining it doesn't hurt.

The underlying problem is administrative. Many of these homes are built on *suelo rústico* (rural land) and banks do not grant mortgages for them. Without financing, the potential buyer is limited to those who can pay cash. Added to this is the labyrinth of inheritance: when the owner dies and the children cannot agree, the house remains in limbo for years.

Current regulations do not help either. In the 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s, houses were built without much paperwork. Today, you must buy the land, pay taxes, conduct geological studies, create projects, hire site managers, connect utilities, build, and pay another 4% in taxes. The result: building today what used to be done by hand is prohibitive.

The great conspiracy: from the countryside to the city and back

There is a more bitter reading. For decades, millions were convinced to leave lands where even the most unskilled had three free meals—four chickens, four tomatoes, four peppers—to move to cities where the model is paying for use, subscriptions, fees, and bills. In the end, they end up with nothing.

Against that narrative, a movement defends the opposite: since the pandemic, many have rediscovered that having a house in the country is an asset. You work harder than in a city basement, yes, but the freedom and satisfaction make up for it. They talk about villas in decent developments with electricity, water, and phone lines, not lost cabins.

The middle ground is set by those who bought before the pandemic: a 30 or 40-year mortgage for 70 square meters in the city, or cash and freedom in the country. A hundred square meters of house, fifty of workshop, two thousand of land, and neighbors a kilometer or two away who raise horses and leave you alone. For them, it was the best decision of their lives.

The future: neither total ruin nor rural paradise

The most likely scenario is neither mass abandonment nor an idyllic rebirth. Villas in the middle of nowhere will end up in ruins, while those near hubs with services and good communications will hold their value and even increase in price. Location is key, as always.

One fact stands out. In the city, no one puts up "for sale" signs because squatters would move in as soon as they knew it was empty. Those country houses with faded signs, however, have been listed for years without anyone touching them. Even the squatters don't want them.