At the end of 1950's my great-grandmother was the last inhabitant of the family farm. One day she locked the door and went away never to return. When we visited the place couple of years ago, the easiest way to get there was to drive to the closest village, then proceed by foot. We had to pass through some fields, then through a forest. Finally, we've descended into a swampy gorge overgrown with vegetation. The path was barely passable. Blackberries and nettles were growing everywhere. We've walked down along the stream. We've passed the cellars, carved into soft tuff rock, that once belonged to the farm. Now they were empty, with no doors and half-filled with water. Then we have arrived at the farm itself. The stone-and-adobe walls were reduced to almost nothing. You could see them sticking out of the thicket here and there and that was it. Eerily, in this country without people, there was an improvised goat shed built out of sticks and plastic foil among the weed, leaning against the remnant of a wall. There were no goats, nor people, to be seen though.