After walking the fields today (that's what it's called, according to the Archers, when you go and look at how things are getting on all over the farm, isn't it?) I am afraid.
All those trees, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of them, covered in green and black olives, ridiculously tall, and growing out of ploughed fields that are really hard to move about in, even in wellies, or hanging dangerously over terracing and rocky outcrops. Apart from that there has been a deliberate starting of the day an hour earlier. First light is now too early. And all these people set to tear fruit from branch for hours and hours and days and days. GULP.
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I'm sure you will make a fine capo squadra. Hope the international blow-in survives. When is the blue heeler arriving? Can still taste the fine oil I was gifted in the summer of 2007. We scoffed the whole bottle in three weeks. Happy olive picking.
Incredible quantities of olives are safely stored in crates waiting to set off for the oil mill. Plucked, sorted, sieved, stacked. We are suffering shoulder wrench and limp wrists; one of us has been got in the eye by an olive branch (that'll teach him not to wear his goggles, Italian or no). We have devoured vast quantities of barbied meat.
Tomorrow is anther day, another field, another challenge. And the more the farm reestablishes itself the more hands we shall need. You would not believe how many olives are hanging on how may trees and it has hardly started. 2010 they said. Hah.
It seems that the collie is the only dog that can talk. I think that's what was being discussed at dinner (so tired much of the time was reduced to waving vaguely at plates of food and hoping they would be passed). So, a ute, a talking dog, and arms lengthened to below the knee. Terrific. And this is only day one.
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