The Olive Tree

 

 

I have entered the ancient world of olive picking and I don't think there is any turning back.

These dusty beauties stand proud while you comb out their branches for their fruit, the olive; bowing and almost kneeling so you can reach them.

 

 

The day starts early and there is no break until Mum turns up with a Greek Ploughman’s (halloumi, tomatoes, cucumber and of course olives!)

 

 

It's tough, but humbling and when I asked Dad "who do you think cut the first olive?" the answer was very obvious “the Greeks of course, everything is Greek" those were the only words he uttered all day, but they were very proud words.

 

 

He is strong for a tiny mighty man and when I walked into a thick branch so fast I fell backwards and really did see stars ("Micky Mouse" style stars), with the sun blinding me I felt Dad near me and held out my hand so that he could help me up, but instead Dad held out a new tool, and  said "take this one, it’s better".

 

 

We worked solid for two days and tended 50 trees. When all the olives are gathered, Dad holds the barrels above his head and pours the olives to the ground while the wind carries away the leaves and dust.  If I could compare Dad to a tree it would be this one, neither of them tall, yet they have a presence and a mystery.

 

 

We go home exhausted and so filthy with dust and all for the love of our very own family olive oil.  Would I do it again?  You betcha! 

 

Maria. x

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