Eco living is not going to suit everybody. Solar-powered heating, hypocaust style, is not for the cosy comfort seekers. What it gives, free (after the instalation costs are met) is a damp-free, virtually maintenance-free, environment. Turn up at the ecohouse on a blustery, grey November day after a week of similar weather and the house will have consumed what sunshine there has been and kept it indoors. But it isn't enough for our soft, centrally-heated selves.
I arrived with the bags of food, ahead of the breakfasting, newspaper reading, coffee drinking, well, I could manage a boiled egg to go with this toast, brigade down in the village. Anoraked-up everything was lovely as I lit the fire in the kitchen, swept up a fat and disgusting spider and threw it out to face its fate over the terracing, put on large pans of water to boil, and checked where the olives had been stored to make sure it had been thoroughly swept after the last round (we don't want trampled in olives on the treated floors do we). But when I sat down to well - have a sit down - I wondered if I would have liked to wake up and find wrap and slippers at these temperatures. Certainly there wasn't an icicles on the inside of the windows scenario (there had better not be with triple glazing and whatever gas lies between the sheets of glass), we could have made up the perfectly dry beds with perfectly dry linen and taken up residence forthwith. There was none of the get you by the throat icy grasp that used to greet us in the house in the village when we arrived for Easter and the building had been closed since the previous summer; it didn't matter how big the fires, how loaded the stoves, it was always days before a single intake of breath didn't chill the lungs. There were wooden frames with metal containers full of hot coals slung within them which had to be placed inside every bed for hours before people dared to slip between the sheets warmly clad in night clothes - not a phrase for nightie, but a full outfit, in brushed cotton with night undies under, and woolly, large socks. Mr HG used, as a child, to be sewn into a fresh vest after his bath. Anyway,
If we have to live the good life after meltdown it's going to be at lower temperatures than we enjoy. We need more clothes, all the time, and life has to be lived with zip, with energy, with keeping warm by keeping up effort and busyness around the house. I've been there before and just keeping clean and warm and healthy takes up a lot of effort. All those granny-level admonitions are probably true as well - draughts, taking off wet things, no bare feet.....
Sunday 29 November 2009
Sunday 22 November 2009
Woodcutter Next
The very last of the olives were milled at 10.30 this morning. The mills work round the clock and with the harvest in full swing it's best not to forsake a booked slot. Which is how you can find yourself driving a heavily laden Landie through the fog on deeply curvy roads. And when you get there everyone who hangs about offering to unload and tip the olives into the hoppers has gone to mass, so you have to haul the crates about yourself muttering unChristian remarks.
The very high yield of the previous lot seems to be a rogue; this lot was giving 18 kilos a quintal, so I put it down to dogs. You drive your vehicle onto the weighbridge. Then you empty its olives into the hoppers. Then you get reweighed with and without the crates in. Then they do sums. If a dog or two joins in during the weighing - they go in for a lot of tyre-sniffing - then you get dog diversion of totals. Happens all the time they say.
Still very fine yields though, particularly for a bad year.
At crack of dawn this morning, loading up, the groves looked very fine. All ploughed freshly, ready for the winter. If they are ploughed now it keeps down weeds, specially brambles, aerates the soil, allows winter rains to get well into the ground, and looks lovely with the autumn colours on the oakwoods as backdrop and that cared-for, groomed look in the fields of silver-green trees.
(Well, I didn't know why the ploughing had been done so immediately, but I know beautiful fields when I see them).
Now for the wood cutting. The woods are kept best by constant thinning and harvesting; bit like the hunters shooting the deer and the boar, only not so distressing. After that everything goes nice and quiet, which is best because frankly farming can be a bit archersish, as a day after day occupation.
The very high yield of the previous lot seems to be a rogue; this lot was giving 18 kilos a quintal, so I put it down to dogs. You drive your vehicle onto the weighbridge. Then you empty its olives into the hoppers. Then you get reweighed with and without the crates in. Then they do sums. If a dog or two joins in during the weighing - they go in for a lot of tyre-sniffing - then you get dog diversion of totals. Happens all the time they say.
Still very fine yields though, particularly for a bad year.
At crack of dawn this morning, loading up, the groves looked very fine. All ploughed freshly, ready for the winter. If they are ploughed now it keeps down weeds, specially brambles, aerates the soil, allows winter rains to get well into the ground, and looks lovely with the autumn colours on the oakwoods as backdrop and that cared-for, groomed look in the fields of silver-green trees.
(Well, I didn't know why the ploughing had been done so immediately, but I know beautiful fields when I see them).
Now for the wood cutting. The woods are kept best by constant thinning and harvesting; bit like the hunters shooting the deer and the boar, only not so distressing. After that everything goes nice and quiet, which is best because frankly farming can be a bit archersish, as a day after day occupation.
Wednesday 18 November 2009
Reactions to Sheep Stealing
Somebody has stripped four heavily laden olive trees and crept off into the mist.
How are we to react to this? Cross? Certainly. Surprised? On the whole. Care? Quite a lot. Confused emotional response? Yes.
I feel proprietary towards our olive trees; they have had years of cash and care lavished on them that could easily be spent on other ends that would not have been as socially inclusive - a lot of farming here is park-keeping to some extent, this is a highly constructed and maintained rural landscape that is, generally, socially not privately enjoyed. So taking the crop has something in common with scrawling graffiti on a restored palazzo - taking the trees, which happened to our neighbour this year and to us last year, is a step worse, like smashing windows and stealing roof tiles.
But is it stealing? Mr HG owns the land and the trees, we have paid for the labour and the fertiliser and the tractor, and done the waiting. Whoever wants some of our oil can come to the cantina and buy some. People are getting poorer though, and olive oil is a staple not a luxury foodstuff, yet its cost has risen astronomically while unemployment has advanced. They can see the olives hanging there while they are in enforced idleness and without wages. It's not scrumping, a bit of fruit or figs taken from trees by passing children, you need nets and ladders to pick a fully grown olive tree bare, and you need crates and a vehicle, and a mill to take the olives to. It's a bit like shoplifting perhaps. Is shoplifting stealing?
Our fellow pickers reacted as variously as we did and with much the same puzzlement. "Whoever did it must be very poor indeed poor things," Graziano remarked; all agreed it was quite a risky thing to do, which is why the trees chosen were down near the river, out of sight of the house. Others wondered if it was foreigners - not immigrants but, literally foreigners in Italy not understanding the rules about crops. But that was ruled out by the equipment needs and the milling. It's locals, but who?
Mills won't take really small quantities readily so either our olives were to be assimilated with someone elses's crop or someone had access to a mill. Everyone knows who has trees, who would be an unexpected possessor of a few trees worth of olives. Minds were being turned over, though not to me (being a foreigner myself).
Thank Goodness. Whatever would we do if we were told who did it?
How are we to react to this? Cross? Certainly. Surprised? On the whole. Care? Quite a lot. Confused emotional response? Yes.
I feel proprietary towards our olive trees; they have had years of cash and care lavished on them that could easily be spent on other ends that would not have been as socially inclusive - a lot of farming here is park-keeping to some extent, this is a highly constructed and maintained rural landscape that is, generally, socially not privately enjoyed. So taking the crop has something in common with scrawling graffiti on a restored palazzo - taking the trees, which happened to our neighbour this year and to us last year, is a step worse, like smashing windows and stealing roof tiles.
But is it stealing? Mr HG owns the land and the trees, we have paid for the labour and the fertiliser and the tractor, and done the waiting. Whoever wants some of our oil can come to the cantina and buy some. People are getting poorer though, and olive oil is a staple not a luxury foodstuff, yet its cost has risen astronomically while unemployment has advanced. They can see the olives hanging there while they are in enforced idleness and without wages. It's not scrumping, a bit of fruit or figs taken from trees by passing children, you need nets and ladders to pick a fully grown olive tree bare, and you need crates and a vehicle, and a mill to take the olives to. It's a bit like shoplifting perhaps. Is shoplifting stealing?
Our fellow pickers reacted as variously as we did and with much the same puzzlement. "Whoever did it must be very poor indeed poor things," Graziano remarked; all agreed it was quite a risky thing to do, which is why the trees chosen were down near the river, out of sight of the house. Others wondered if it was foreigners - not immigrants but, literally foreigners in Italy not understanding the rules about crops. But that was ruled out by the equipment needs and the milling. It's locals, but who?
Mills won't take really small quantities readily so either our olives were to be assimilated with someone elses's crop or someone had access to a mill. Everyone knows who has trees, who would be an unexpected possessor of a few trees worth of olives. Minds were being turned over, though not to me (being a foreigner myself).
Thank Goodness. Whatever would we do if we were told who did it?
Sunday 15 November 2009
Oil Like Ribena
The second milling is now in the cantine in the house in the village.
22.7 kilos a quintal. These are the olives from the great sweep of olive groves beneath the ecohouse: perfect exposure to sun, protection from prevailing colder winds, watered by the acquifers above them. Even so, that is a yield and a half.
One more milling to go, from the high fields, and from the great field reaching almost to the water meadows along the local river. The great field has the oldest trees, loaded this year with teeny tiny olives. These are the trees that the Foreman had wanted to dispose of, to completely replace. This time we will get 'ancient' oil. It was me who defended these beautiful old trees so I hope they don't blot my copybook.
In any case, next year all the olives must be milled together to produce the oil from various types of tree that marks a particular producer's oil. Next year will see the return of the real thing, if it doesn't see the return of the fly.
22.7 kilos a quintal. These are the olives from the great sweep of olive groves beneath the ecohouse: perfect exposure to sun, protection from prevailing colder winds, watered by the acquifers above them. Even so, that is a yield and a half.
One more milling to go, from the high fields, and from the great field reaching almost to the water meadows along the local river. The great field has the oldest trees, loaded this year with teeny tiny olives. These are the trees that the Foreman had wanted to dispose of, to completely replace. This time we will get 'ancient' oil. It was me who defended these beautiful old trees so I hope they don't blot my copybook.
In any case, next year all the olives must be milled together to produce the oil from various types of tree that marks a particular producer's oil. Next year will see the return of the real thing, if it doesn't see the return of the fly.
Saturday 14 November 2009
We Needed Ladders
The yield on the oil is 17 kilos a quintal. YES - 17 kgs.
And the oil is delicious. Not peppery and pretend-valued for it when actually peppery means picked too early: it is smooth, green as the eyes of a goddess, and just perfectly viscous.
They've been picking for a week - no, I found the strength of mind to declare olive-picking outside my remit - I cooked for the hungry-as-hunters. A strong Sydney-sider showing has made the finishing line next Tuesday. The second tranche (or whatever is the correct term) goes to the mill tomorrow, then one more on Wednesday morning.
The Foreman is beside himself; this is the result of years of faith and work. The olive groves were collapsed, ruined, abandoned, frozen by winter cold and burned by summer droughts. Overgrown by scrub oak, infested with brambles. But we, and it was me too in the early years, have coppiced and chopped and cleared and ploughed and organically fertilised and pruned and chatted to the trees until they have at last stopped sulking and dying.
People ask us for the oil. Have we enough yet to sell? Always noted for its quality it is coming back into repute, not least because in all the years of dosing the countryside with every chemical known to man (I wouldn't be a bit surprised if the local peasantry had used Agent Orange, so great is their hatred of their enemies in the olive cultivation field) our olive trees stood untouched or molested by man. There is a lot of fear of what was sprayed and poured onto the fields in the bad old days; the empty waters of the Arno are only now beginning to have wading birds, fish, skimming insects and even swimmers (hardy Germans and close to the source, admittedly). We used once to cross a field of violets to swim in the Arno, where the river bed had been paved with pietra serena and eels lived near the bridge. I wouldn't get in now, probably be cut off at the knees still, but it is getting better, although the wading birds are only risking one leg, I notice.
It's so exciting, all that work and ad un tratto as they say round here, it yields.
It yields, to be absolutely accurate, 16.977 kgs a quintal.
And the oil is delicious. Not peppery and pretend-valued for it when actually peppery means picked too early: it is smooth, green as the eyes of a goddess, and just perfectly viscous.
They've been picking for a week - no, I found the strength of mind to declare olive-picking outside my remit - I cooked for the hungry-as-hunters. A strong Sydney-sider showing has made the finishing line next Tuesday. The second tranche (or whatever is the correct term) goes to the mill tomorrow, then one more on Wednesday morning.
The Foreman is beside himself; this is the result of years of faith and work. The olive groves were collapsed, ruined, abandoned, frozen by winter cold and burned by summer droughts. Overgrown by scrub oak, infested with brambles. But we, and it was me too in the early years, have coppiced and chopped and cleared and ploughed and organically fertilised and pruned and chatted to the trees until they have at last stopped sulking and dying.
People ask us for the oil. Have we enough yet to sell? Always noted for its quality it is coming back into repute, not least because in all the years of dosing the countryside with every chemical known to man (I wouldn't be a bit surprised if the local peasantry had used Agent Orange, so great is their hatred of their enemies in the olive cultivation field) our olive trees stood untouched or molested by man. There is a lot of fear of what was sprayed and poured onto the fields in the bad old days; the empty waters of the Arno are only now beginning to have wading birds, fish, skimming insects and even swimmers (hardy Germans and close to the source, admittedly). We used once to cross a field of violets to swim in the Arno, where the river bed had been paved with pietra serena and eels lived near the bridge. I wouldn't get in now, probably be cut off at the knees still, but it is getting better, although the wading birds are only risking one leg, I notice.
It's so exciting, all that work and ad un tratto as they say round here, it yields.
It yields, to be absolutely accurate, 16.977 kgs a quintal.
Friday 6 November 2009
Olives 101
The olive picking is supposed to start tomorrow morning - first light sharp! Only it's been raining on and off for the last few days and wet olives are best stored on trees so the start picking date has become a movable feast.
Most people have had an appalling year and there are very few olives. (Don't even think of going to the reasons). Most people are probably planning to sit cosily indoors sorting their cupboards and switching their husbands to winter socks. My trees are olivishly laden with plump dark beads waiting to be unthreaded onto the nets. For once we are counter cyclical. Except that we have not summoned up the English forces to eat boar stewed in red wine, or just drink red wine, and get the olives into the mill. We thought we would go down like everyone else.
Oh well, I shall have to go to piazza Donatello and summon up zombie assistence. Or pay local pickers in euros for they are unimpressed by the views, the camaraderie, the chit chat and the evening fires, the wine or the stewed boar.
Don't you just hate the economics of farming - all so first year.
Most people have had an appalling year and there are very few olives. (Don't even think of going to the reasons). Most people are probably planning to sit cosily indoors sorting their cupboards and switching their husbands to winter socks. My trees are olivishly laden with plump dark beads waiting to be unthreaded onto the nets. For once we are counter cyclical. Except that we have not summoned up the English forces to eat boar stewed in red wine, or just drink red wine, and get the olives into the mill. We thought we would go down like everyone else.
Oh well, I shall have to go to piazza Donatello and summon up zombie assistence. Or pay local pickers in euros for they are unimpressed by the views, the camaraderie, the chit chat and the evening fires, the wine or the stewed boar.
Don't you just hate the economics of farming - all so first year.
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