A 400 year old olive mill is being restored by an Englishman as one of Spain’s foremost sustainable renovation projects.

Many of us who have moved to Spain end up taking on some sort of renovation project. For most it is a case of modernising a quaint village house or perhaps renovating a tumbledown finca. But who in their right mind would take on the monstrous challenge of restoring a cavernous seventeenth century olive mill the size of a small castle?

I met up Sebastian Blakely at his ‘home’ on the outskirts of Órgiva to see what kind of person could rise to the scale of this challenge. He lives there with his wife Pamela and their three children, having moved out from Devon and bought the place in 2004. “I looked at over 65 other properties and had almost given up searching when a friend told me about this molino. As soon as I saw it I knew it was the place I had been looking for.”

It’s a grand old property, rising three stories high and built with red bricks in the Toledo style of architecture. Sebastian excavated an old road running through the grounds and theorises that the mill was originally the main garrison standing at what was once the entrance to a newly Christianised Alpujarra.  Wandering around it is akin to stepping back in time. Inside the gloomy interior huge olive crushing stones are littered around and arcane machinery from a former era stands silently in the dust. In one corner rests a dilapidated horse-drawn carriage. It’s like wandering around an abandoned museum.

And everywhere one looks there lies large piles of building materials, pointing to the restoration work that is under way. But these are not the usual building materials one finds lying around a building site. Wooden pallets are piled high with bags of lime and large squared oak beams lie across the floors. There are no breezeblock, no bags of cement, no machihembradas. “I want this to be a showcase of sustainable renovation, “explains Sebastian, “not a single sack of cement is being used.” He shows me a pile of bricks which, upon closer inspection, are mud coloured and fibrous. “They’re made of compacted earth bound together with hemp fibre. Excellent thermal and acoustic insulation,” he adds.

Outside in the immaculate walled garden (one part that has already been finished) we talk about building over a cup of tea. One soon learns of Sebastian’s antipathy towards modern building materials. “If a person has any sense of continuity they should not be using concrete – it is a non-re-usable material and is disconnected from the cyclic nature of the planet.” His point is that concrete sets solid and will then be around in that form until kingdom come and will have no further use except, perhaps, as hardcore.

“Lime,” he says, “is infinitely different. It’s a natural and permeable material and can be used again and again.” By way of example he tells me about an old wall he excavated, reusing the lime mortar by smashing it up and remixing it for use in a roof.

But isn’t it difficult sourcing all of these sustainable materials, I ask him. No, he says, much of his requirements are met by a building supplier in Guadix, east of Granada, including all the lime and mud/hemp bricks and insulation. Sixty tonnes of oak from a sustainably managed forest were brought in from France for the beams, along with masses of douglas fir which, he points out, is naturally insect repellent and doesn’t require treatment. He concedes that bringing such materials in from another country (albeit a neighbouring one) might seem a little un-sustainable. But, he points out, that in a project like this you have to set the bar for exactly how sustainable you are going to make it. “If I were to go any more down that path I’d be collecting the timber myself with a horse and cart,” he jokes. It is decisions such as these that he must advise clients on in his own building consultancy, Mimar Sustainable.

And the more Sebastian tells me about his project the more impressive the scale of his vision seems to create the definitive showpiece sustainably renovated Spanish property. Air conditioning is achieved by ‘wind’ collectors that funnel the prevailing breeze underneath the building and across subterranean water tanks in a kind of heat exchanger that cools the rest of the structure above; “An ancient Arab method,” he points out. This design has saved numerous thousands of euros in the fitting of a modern electricity-gobbling air con system, as well as its future running costs. The ground floors (when they go down) will be lime based and sealed with terracotta tiles to allow for the exchange of moisture. “The worst thing you can do,” he tells me, “is to put down a concrete floor in an old house with walls made of stone. This forces ground moisture into the walls where it causes rising damp and rotting beams – disaster! “

How many years will it take before the project is completed? Sebastian sighs and looks philosophical. “Who knows? To an extent it depends on the funding.” He goes on to mention various applications for grants and all the red tape he has had to struggle with. The bottom line, he feels, is that in Andalucía there is little regard for cultural heritage “They have yet to realise their historic patrimony.” Ideally he would like the completed molino to be a local cultural or educational venue for arts, films, seminars and anything else with a community oriented aspect.  Already they have hosted several weddings in the grounds (which explain their immaculate look) and there are several outbuildings where guests can stay. But mostly I get the feeling that he wants the building to stand as a shining example of what can be achieved by using natural materials.

“Cement is toxic,” he says. “Portland cement is used so widely because it is so cheap and quick. But the environmental costs are staggering. Spanish builders have forgotten in only twenty years all the skills that they once used to build structures that have lasted hundreds of years. How long will it be before certain illnesses are linked to people being surrounded by an environment made from cement?”