‘This is pretty therapeutic’: a pottery retreat in Spain’s Alpujarras | Learning holidays

I’m sitting on the ground with seven others, huddled around a mass of lumpy, grey matter that quickly turns to powder under the pounding of hammers. Beside us are a small dipping pool, some mulberry trees and a whitewashed house crawling with purple bougainvillaea, from which two dogs drift in and out to inspect our work.

“This is pretty therapeutic, isn’t it?” someone says above the clattering of tools, as flower-dappled light dances on a canopy that’s shielding us from the hot Andalucían sun.

We’re on a four-day wild clay ceramics retreat at Las Mecias, a regenerative farm in Spain’s Alpujarras, an idyllic valley just over an hour and a half south-east of Granada in the Sierra Nevada mountains. The course is a collaboration between Las Mecias’s Dutch owners, Laura and Nina, and Spaniards Milena and Julia from Tierra de Arcillas, a local ceramics studio. They connected through Instagram and things evolved from there.

The aim is to teach guests how to find, forage, process and fire ceramics from locally sourced wild clay in a more sustainable approach to pottery. They run a handful of workshops in spring and autumn when temperatures are more bearable.

I found Las Mecias while looking for pottery retreats in Spain, already hooked after one wheel-throwing workshop months earlier. That class came towards the end of a debilitating bout of depression and anxiety that had left me unable to work or function properly for months. At the wheel, I felt the dark cloud lift temporarily and anxious ruminations evaporated like water on a hot stove.

This time I’d be hand-building pottery for the first time. Las Mecias is located in exactly the kind of place those tired of the city long to escape to. Set off a dusty track, a few minutes from the picturesque mountainside pueblo (village) of Cástaras, the 2-hectare (5-acre) off-grid organic farm and retreat space is a natural haven dotted with olive and fruit trees, wildflowers and vegetable gardens.

The accommodation comprises a tiny home (a dinky caravan with a sundeck), a good-sized Mongolian-style yurt, and a minimalist Mediterranean two-bedroom casita (small house) with a kitchen, living room and terrace. All have spellbinding views over the low Sierra de la Contraviesa, which is speckled with vines and cortijos (farmhouses).

Our group includes a model from Taiwan, a Spanish project manager, a French yoga teacher, a Polish AI expert and a clarinettist from High Wycombe. My girlfriend and I are staying off-site at El Huerto de Lobras – a collection of bucolic apartments run by an endearing abuela (grandmother) named Ana.

The first day begins with introductions followed by a lesson on clay theory and a foraging mission led by Milena and Julia. The warm, spirited couple, who met in Barcelona and now live together in Almería, run Tierras de Arcillas in the foothills of the Alpujarras Almeriense.

Sick of being stuck behind a screen, Julia, a graphic designer, took a ceramics course in Barcelona where she became fascinated with the origins of clay. Lighting designer Milena was converted later when trawling the hills of Almería, charmed by the earth’s colours and textures.

Armed with pick-spades, we all set off to roam the marbled hills, searching for good clay. “See those cracks? That’s a good sign,” Julia says, leading us to a jagged, light-grey shard of mountain. We test the quality by removing stones, adding a drop of water, making a ball, then a tiny sausage, then a ring. The ring is the goal as it means the clay is 70% pure. After a positive test, we hack away frantically in clouds of dust, filling buckets like middle-class miners.

Back at the farm, Laura and Nina prepare dinner. Between them, the couple have worked in kitchens across the UK, Australia, Denmark and the Netherlands, so meals at Las Mecias are exceptional. For breakfast, there’s freshly made sourdough loaves, homemade quince, strawberry and plum jams and plates of watermelon, mango and loquat. Lunches feature Ottolenghi-worthy salads, while dinners span Indonesian, Mediterranean and Middle-Eastern cuisine – served with their own olive oil and natural wine.

Between meals, we wander the grounds, flop in deck chairs and hammocks staring out to snow-capped peaks, and work on our pieces. One of the group – me – makes an ugly olive dish, which looks like a flower that’s been stamped on. Others craft impressive vases, plates, cups, trays and bird feeders.

The workshop is well structured and flows naturally. Each part feels like a therapeutic technique. Foraging becomes my grounding ritual. Processing clay by removing impurities echoes filtering out negative beliefs. Deep discussions replace the rawness of therapy. And nutritious meals, quality sleep and abundant nature restore the soul.

Over the days, my mind quietens. It’s not a resounding silence. I’m not cured from the mental health issues that have plagued me for two decades, but I feel calmer. I’m attuned to the hum of bees and the crunch of stones underfoot. Inconveniences morph into joyful moments: getting stuck behind a farmer herding goats on a winding mountain road, having no phone signal anywhere, and being woken by the local church choir.

The four-day workshop culminates in a final ritual, where we fire up the handbuilt kiln and load it with our pieces. Between shifts gathering sticks and stoking the fire, we take turns dipping in the pool.

After sunset, Laura makes a pizza while Nina glides around with homemade wine and jugs of shrub – a refreshing drink made from fruit and vinegar.

Perching on hay bales, swigging wine and sharing stories, we cheer as the kiln’s temperature hits its century milestones, before reaching a high of 917F (492C). Sealing the oven, Milena and Julia chant a symbolic blessing, “protectora, ponle lo que falta y quitale lo que le sobra”, roughly translated to, “protector, provide us with what we lack and remove what isn’t needed”, before we retire to bed.

The next morning, we gather around the kiln and remove bricks, one by one. There’s no telling what’s survived: the fire decides. Perhaps a final reminder that acceptance and letting go is part of the process. Cheers erupt and compliments are exchanged as the first pieces emerge intact.

As we say our goodbyes, one member of the group leaves us with a final moment of reflection. “Honestly, I didn’t really care what mine turned out like. It didn’t matter if it cracked or exploded. I just enjoyed the process and would’ve accepted whatever happened.”

The retreat was provided by Las Mecias and Tierra de Arcillas, which offer three-night, four-day introduction to wild clay workshops, including accommodation, three dinners, three breakfasts and two lunches, and over 15 hours of theory and practical instruction. Prices from €580, based on a shared stay in a yurt with an outside bathroom. The next workshop is 16-19 October; 2026 dates to be announced late in October