Olive-picking in the Cotton Fields!

I had to squeeze in a quick blog posting to mark my first one just about a year ago.
The winter solstice has just passed so the longer days are on their way – yay! With Christmas coming up, and after the year 2011 has been for most of us, everyone is ready to relax and take time out for enjoyment. We are heading off to a ‘boutique hotel’ in Halkidiki. It’s by the beach, but since our local mountain, Hortiatis, is now snow-capped, it will be heavy clothes and not beach-wear that we’ll be packing.

In my last post I ended with a pic of cats-in-olive-tree so how about this for a lovely piece of textual cohesion? My focus today is on olives as our recent activities have also focused on them.
Years ago I remember seeing a cartoon : a despondent hulk sitting in a corner being asked “Why do you look so glum, Genghis?” Response: “How many men do you need to make a horde?” So my parallel question is “How many olive trees do you need to make a grove?” We have 24 trees on our land and this year the ‘babies’ came on tap for the first time. Initially they caused us concern as the olives they had borne were strangely puckered – perhaps some disease? But the particularly wet phase we had late summer plumped them out and our young trees bore a fine first harvest.

Our first collection was of ‘eating’ olives – those to be preserved for eating with salads and savoury dishes. Firm fruit are separated into green and black batches, split with a knife, then put in containers of fresh water. These are kept there for a week, the water being changed daily. By this time they have lost much of their very bitter taste and are now put in brine for around five weeks. These pickled olives go to the final phase of marinating: after being drained, they are put into smaller glass containers with oil, garlic slices, lemon wedges and sprigs of fresh dill. They are ready to eat after about two weeks in the oil mixture and will keep good … for as long as they last! There are, of course, lots of variations depending on olive-types and texture-preferences – these instructions are not set…on olive stones! So next time you sit down to enjoy a ‘choriatiki salata’ – a village salad, spare a thought for the process that went into preparing your olives, starting from: first plant your tree!

Actually I came across a recipe for olive bread which used mortadella, not my favourite ingredient as I find it has too much fat, so I made some adaptations and here is the outcome:
Ingredients :
150 gr self-raising flour
100 gr mixed cheese – I used gouda and parmesan
160 gr pitted and chopped olives
3 eggs lightly beaten
80 gr melted butter
Chopped fresh mint to taste, season with pepper
Method :
• Preheat oven to 200oC
• Lightly grease a regular loaf tin(8cmx26cm ) and line with baking parchment
• Sift flour into bowl and add cheese, olives, mint and pepper
• Stir in eggs and butter and combine well
• Spread mixture into the loaf tin and bake, without covering, for about 30 minutes, until lightly browned and cooked through.
• Remove carefully and cool on a wire rack
This is particularly good served with salads and meze as a light lunch. More on olives to come…….

Given the time of year, however, light lunches are probably not on the cards!
We’re packing a very small suitcase this time, travelling light and light-hearted.
Have a wonderful Christmas shared with friends and family, enjoying gastronomic goodiesand traditional treats.

Daily Life in Greece - November 2011

Firstly I’d like to thank all those who hospitalised us, as one of my students once said, over our holidays - and Highland hospitality being what it is, that’s not too far out! That is, thanks to Marina and John, Anne, Susan and Ian, Diana and Ian – and, of course, Freda and Derek and Jacqui and Ali for the grand wedding reception-spreads you offered. You helped us lay down wonderful memories to look back on now the going has got tough here. 

 Susan wrote recently from Mull, saying it was hard to get a true picture of what was happening here – you and me, babe! We seem to hear nothing but rumours, then responses to rumours, leaving us in that category psychologists fondly term ‘the perpetual know-nothings’ – often by choice as the ‘news’ that is served up is not informative, just frustrating  and distressing. 

 What is life like here? -  time to give you a picture of our daily life under the current politico-economic  conditions, for I suspect that some blog readers plug in with an expectation of reading something of that. 

Recently we were invited for a family lunch: the hostess who has had her monthly income cut by about 500 euros, (this includes permanent cuts now in place,  as well as retrospective deductions over the next few months) is helping support the family – her husband has been waiting for his pension to come on line since last December, which is par for the course. She supports her son, whose wife is unemployed, and whose salary is not enough for them to live on, while her self-employed daughter often works till 10pm just to catch the odd customer.  Daughter is fortunate because both she and her husband are fairly securely employed but they need mum’s help to look after their young son in the afternoons.  Our hostess is generous and an excellent cook; we all enjoy family-get-togethers with news-updates and, of course, the droll antics of her young grandchild. But this time the atmosphere was heavy. These are young people who are fortunate in having their own homes and a strong family support system; they should be full of fun, enjoying youth and life to the full - instead what is palpably present is their fatigue and, the worst, a sense of hopelessness. That’s the heritage that has been left for them. 

 We are invited to supper by friends – we are very fortunate in our friends and family! – the lady of the house has made pitta - pie -  and is famous for her excellent ‘politikh kouzina’ traditional fare from Constantinople, the polis or city.  They are both retired teachers and their pensions and superannuation allowances between them have been cut by about 600 euros per month. We talk of oil prices and the cost of wood, as we both have central-heating systems and open fires. Fortunately up to now our autumn has been mild and mellow so we can save on that outlay.

 On the bus into town an unknown fellow-passenger suddenly begins to offload, uninvited, her perception of current events - mainly that a prominent politician is an American agent. When hard data and real information is lacking or things are non-comprehendible, often imagination takes over; where critical analysis is lacking…. Conspiracy Theory readily steps in to fill the gap. Certainly, everyone seems  focused on the crisis and in a permanent state of not-knowing.

 Our SAT classes happened to fall on Guy Fawkes Day last week and so during the lesson we took a little cultural detour. Some of the students had already heard of Mr Fawkes  and thought intriguing the idea of wanting to blow up the Houses of Parliament, as he along with 12 others conspired to do in 1605 to replace the reigning monarch, James 1^st, , by  a Catholic  one. Now far be it from me to condone or encourage such treasonous acts but doesn’t it seem natural that children look forward to Guy Fawkes Night with its great bonfires and firework displays. So, strange to say, we view November 5^th as an enjoyable event. We may be called upon to

”Remember, remember the 5^th of November – gunpowder, treason and plot’

 but even if you did plot against your king and parliament and lost your life because of it, to be commemorated centuries down the line by happy children is the kind of celebrity many crave and strive for today! 

 I have since done my ‘homework’ and learned that on November 5^th, by very Act of Parliament, the populace were encouraged to celebrate the safety of King James by lighting bonfires, so that’s all right, then. But I do love the description of Guy Fawkes, quoted in J A Sharpe’s “Remember Remember, A Cultural History of Guy Fawkes Day’ as being

‘…the only man ever to enter Parliament with honest intentions…’. 

  For some reason, perhaps our recent visit to Glasgow, I keep thinking on the bell, the book and the ring, the symbols of Saint Mungo or Kentigern, the city’s patron saint. Now, reading up on this seems to indicate it was, in fact, the bell, the fish and the ring that were the symbols- I wonder where my ‘book’ came from?

  In a nutshell: here, the warning BELL is certainly ringing. We have been lurching from one crisis to another, waiting for the decision from Brussels, that came, then the mooted plebiscite, which was then decided against - or was that plebicide? as this is really killing us!! At any rate, the EU decided they would BAIL us out, which fairly and squarely puts the BALL in our court. We know that it is us, the plebs, who are footing the BILL, so let’s just get on with it and have some action instead of gassing. We are weary of hearing what measures will be taken, without any change in the system being effected, the deductions from our salaries and pensions going ….we know not where. Now we have had a vote of confidence passed, but a defecting Prime Minister, and now the formulation of some kind of Coalition. We’ve been waiting for what seems like ages for the outcome, but black smoke is still being emitted on that, indicating no final decisions have been made yet.(The papal election metaphor seems apposite as Mr Berlusconi is now taking some of the heat!)  So all we can do is wait for the next ……news BULLetin!  

In the meantime, we carry on with our own routine. H has been pruning non-fruit-bearing olive branches with a little help. They say that cats adopt you and this is certainly true of our neighbours’ cats who see our two adjacent plots as their entire domain. They accompany us both at work and at rest. I realize we have had no pictures so far so here you are :  one  entitled ‘at work’; the other ‘retirement’! 

 

                                                                    C’est la vie!

Holiday then home-coming

Contrary to all evidence, we are still not on holiday!!
We touched down in Durham briefly, just enough time to catch up with family and to meet Moya from Santa Barbara for a quick Swan and Cygnet lunch.

Then… ahhhhh…off to Scotland -  first stop: Glasgow. We were staying at a hotel right in the centre, young, buzzy and a triumph of design over space. I was delighted to see they stock Island Bakery biscuits made on Mull – scrumptious! Met up with Fred and Derek and had that visit to the Burrell Collection I’ve been promising myself for years. Incredible that one person was able to amass such a vast, global collection in his lifetime. The setting in the Pollock Country Park is spectacular, made even more so by the friendly resident Highland coos!

We had a grand time in Glasgow – awash with kilts for the Scottish/Czech Republic International that day. At the wedding we were piped down from the church to the hotel reception- absolutely grand stuff! Turned a little Kintyre-sick and emotionally incontinent as the piper skirled away with ‘Campbeltown Loch’. Another form of incontinence struck us down while we were in Inverness as a virus wreaked havoc with our innards. We thought it was down to a bad kurma on our last night there – but it turned out it was our karma that was bad, instead! Anne drove us all the way round the renowned Loch Ness (Nessie, the local monster, was too modest to make an appearance) but we spent time fascinated, watching the locks operate on the Caledonian Canal, as boats moved on through to Loch Oich, Loch Lochy and Loch Linnhe to the west coast.

By the time we reached Oban the weather was dire; blustery storms had the ferries on amber alert. Still we made a bid for a crossing to Mull. Full marks for Highland humour to Donald, Callie MacBrayne employee, who batted nary an eyelid as rainwater from my hat cascaded onto his desk and who welcomed me with : ‘If I were a gentleman I’d get you a towel ………… but I’m not!’ Drenched as I was to the very bone and with a cold, unsettled tummy, but now with tickets for our crossing, a smile crossed my lips – well done, Donald! Susan and Ian served hot tea on arrival at Loch Don – a real welcome! The weather improved, Fiona and Ronnie arrived, and we all made for the Sea Food Festival where we enjoyed mussels, salmon and oysters, all served up with smiles from our Inner Hebridean volunteer hosts.

 

                                                         

 Then it was time to head south to prepare for Jen and Mark’s wedding in Harrogate. The wedding itself was a cosy registry office affair. Unexpectedly, I was called to present a reading which I just about carried off, what with croaky voice and a lump in my throat on realizing the text was Robert Burn’s “My luve is like a red, red rose”! The reception was a great get-together, even though the viral effects did not allow us to fully do justice to the buffet with lots of starters, (my mind’s eye still dwells longingly on the mounds of pork pies and tablet) before the lavish grill and salad spread. All the couple’s friends had played a significant part in the event : from organising children’s gift bags, putting up bunting, setting tables, the lot. My brother, resplendent in tartan waistcoat, executed a fine father-of-the-bride speech, formalities over it was time to party. Three of the Arctic Monkeys were among the guests – the bride introduced me to them as a ‘wayward aunt’! - and they did us proud by ‘ jammin’ ’ later on. Everyone up bopping : John Legbelos – eat your heart out!!

The next day we visited Diana and Ian on their Yorkshire farm, then, having admired their fine farmstead, her great art work and impressive veggie patch, we made a quick departure as storms were apparently blowing in to the west from Stateside.

It wasn’t quite time to get back to old clothes and porridge yet: some nice dinners to go, a visit to Durham to relish her green finery , then time to fill Apollo for our departure.





During our entire, happy holiday we had been blissfully cut off from media reports on the ‘The Greek Situation’, so we knew not what lay ahead. All I know was that when we landed at Macedonia airport, and I felt that balmy late-summer-evening air embrace my skin, I had a wonderful sense of home-coming, exactly as I had had when I first set foot on Greek soil many, many moons ago.

Holidays Durham Glasgow Inverness Oban Mull The Highlands Harrogate ......Heaven !

August's sole post is going to be brief.
Tomorrow early we  head off to Durham to cool off from this intense heat, walk by the river in the leafy shade.
 Next port of call is to Glasgow to attend Calum and Yvonne's wedding in Eaglesham - as luck would have it we were also invited to see Evangelia and Orestis wed in Aghios Dimitrios - will technology ever allow us to be in two places at once ??
 We have an arrangement to meet Anne in her new house in Inverness and we'd love to also meet up with Nessie, the resident monster.... if at all possible.
 Then down to visit Susan in Mull and take in the local mussel festival, and hoping to meet Fiona for the first time too! A breezy crossing from Oban on a Callie MacBrayne's ferry certainly seems appealing in current temps of 33oc.
 And then another wedding - this time Jen and Mark tie the knot in Harrogate at what will be a real music-fest.

 May the sun shine on these three young couples and may they enjoy a long and happy life together.


 The cases are packed.

 

This one is most apt : tartan design to match our destination, brand name , 'Apollo' .

H has this week taken the momentous step of deciding to retire so we are really and truly .........
ready for lift-off. Bye for now :)

Summertime

Leaving politics and economics aside ….let’s talk SUMMER- a subject taken very, very seriously in Greece.  The garden goes into overdrive, necessitating much pruning, mowing and clipping; the heat tells us it’s time to clean the pool.

  Our yuccas flourish, our glorious magnolia tree produces grande flora blooms, our spring efforts bear fruit ….and vegetables.

  Right now we’re in high summer and the temperatures in the upper 30’s in our balcony shade are reminiscent of what we became used to when living and working in Kuwait. I remember our friend Jan, who’d forgotten to take the necessary precautions of covering the dashboard on leaving the car and wearing driving gloves on return, in a rush to get home for lunch, grabbed the red-hot  steering wheel ….and lost the skin on her palms and fingers ! Despite our grass being watered nightly by the sprinkler system, and H doing additional hosing, it’s very parched in places what with constant heat and the searing hot winds. Feels like someone left the meteorological oven door open.

 There’s nothing like a cooling drink: years ago when visiting Jean and Max in Montreal, I was served home-made lemonade. I still remember Jean’s treat as being the height of hospitality on a hot summer’s day. Maybe she’ll share her recipe with us?

In the meantime, here is mine :

Ingredients : 200 gr sugar; thinly sliced rind and juice of 3 lemons ; 1 litre of boiling water

Method : Place the sugar, rind and boiling water in a bowl, cover it, stirring occasionally until the sugar has dissolved. Once the syrup has cooled a little, (leaving it too long makes it too bitter) remove the rind, add the juice, then strain into a bottle or jug and cool in the fridge.

Served with ice, this is a thirst –quenching long drink.

And, try this : put 2 ice cubes in a glass, add a slug on white rum, two or three slugs of lemonade, add a few sprigs of mint and……enjoy your mac.mojito! It makes a lovely sundowner and is a fine way to welcome dinner guests on a balmy evening.

This week all schools in England are now enjoying their school holidays. In Greece we’re way ahead in the game – schools closed on June 15^th and go back 11^th September – now that is serious summer-taking!

For us, the end-of-school-year focus is on our school-leavers- to use the US parlance, the ‘graduating students’. In contrast to their daily school appearance, it’s sometimes difficult to recognize these sharp young men in suits and the delightful ‘debs’ in their white evening gowns. Each student is named as they take their seats and many are called onstage to receive merit awards for academic success, success in competitions, in music, sports and in a variety of extra-curricular fields, as well as for US university placement.

This brings me to the question, the hot potato of political correctness in education : should prize-giving be abolished in the name of egalitarianism? This in turn brings to mind the incredible short story ’Harrison Bergeron’ by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. which begins :

‘The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal!’

It’s a sobering read, showing where the dogmatic upholding of such ideas could lead us….

In Britain some schools have abandoned prize-giving on the basis of such thinking while others downplay the merit-bias by also offering endeavour awards. And, while we’re on the topic of education, there is the teacher role question : some school  operate policies of ‘no touch’ for fear of complaints or of teachers being accused of breaching human rights and child protection laws.  So a teacher may well be in the position where they cannot expect professional managerial support where they have touched a child in class either as an act of disciplining or of offering comfort in response to distress. I cannot recognize such an environment as an educational one, where the teacher is a circumstantial victim and not a classroom manager. Michael Gove, as Education Secretary, may have said that England’s teachers not being allowed to touch students is a myth , but where fear takes precedence over good sense then that ‘myth’ is actually being enforced. For who will go out on a limb – or even touch one?- where a court case or job-loss might ensue?  May common sense once more prevail in the classroom!

At any rate what we are doing here is celebrating : our students reaching a milestone in their life path, marking the end of their secondary education, moving on in diverse directions. They deserve their hard-earned awards.

I’d like to offer my own perspective at this point : as a swotty child, hopeless at sports, neither wildly confident nor poised, studying was something I could do and was good at. Gaining merit awards was a form of acknowledgement for who I was.

This year I was the happy recipient of three awards :

• On my retirement from the Panhellenic Forensics Association (more on that later )
• For my ‘long-term and valued service’ to the school and
• The Yale University Educator Recognition Award

 My point here is not a self-congratulatory trumpet fanfare but to express how important for me such acknowledgement was, bringing a lovely closure to my professional career.

 I’d like to make a special comment on the Yale award. It is given ‘for outstanding dedication to students’ and came about due to my being nominated by a former student currently studying at Yale.

 Yianni, I may have helped you construct your CV, but on my CV, which I worked hard to develop throughout my career, you hold a special place in its final entry.

For your generosity and appreciation I thank you from the bottom of my heart!

 Now then, where were we? Ah yes! Summertime in Greece. What’s it for?

 For having fun in the water…….

   Posing by the pool….                

    

 And reaching down for that very last drop of ice-cream!! 

  

                                                           Happy holidays, one and all!

Five Little PIGIS - a response to the European economic mire

Life in the Cottonfields, well, in Greece in general, is unsettling right now ….we are going through turbulent times. The media mechanisms are constantly churning out rumours and responses to those rumours. In different ways people are expressing their anxiety and discontent at the situation into which our politicians have led us ……..and we have let them.

It resembles a nasty play within a tragedy – a modern Greek one. We have been lumped into a disparaging taxonomy of PIGS or PIGIS : the economically challenged group consisting of Portugal, Ireland, Greece and Spain, with Italy sometimes enjoying the doubtful pleasure of being linked in with us. 

The terms did bring to mind for me, however, the nursery rhyme “This Little Piggy’ – a toe-counting stanza. For each ‘piggy’, a toe, starting with the big one, is tweaked lightly until, with the little toe finally, you take the baby’s foot and tickle it. This little poem was first published in 1760 - which means it’s seen a lot of toe-counting and ultimate foot-tickling down the years.  The original goes like this:

This little piggy went to market

This little piggy stayed at home

This little piggy had roast beef

 This little piggy had none

 And this little piggy cried , 'Wee! wee! wee!’

All the way home.

                                                  Here’s my version in response to current climes: 

Five little PIGIS played the market

Five little PIGIS lived on loans

All five economies got beefed up

Ignoring the Day of Reckoning to come

And when it did the PIGIS cried,’Wee! Wee! Wee!’

All the way to the bankers

 Who resolutely refused to lift them from their financial bog

Preferring instead literally to live high …….off the hog!

Euthanasia ....Dognitas

Last year, early July, the weather in central Macedonia was in a state of turbulence, worthy of scenes from the allegedly cursed ‘Scottish play’ by Shakespeare. H. decided it was time for another dog – a sign he had begun recovery from the devastating loss of Alex, his canine soul-mate, the previous January. They say cats find you, but I think Ivan found H.. From the Internet his picture reached out to us, his dark, soft eyes telling us he needed a home. I was concerned, with Ivan being of similar race to Alex- an English collie - he might be too much of a reminder.  But ….. he made his way to us , anyway.

His story was that he’d been found tied to a large rubbish collection bin.  Previously owned by a shop-owner, he was used to being chained outside during opening hours, and locked inside the shop at night.

 When he arrived his limp was evident - broken bone, self-healed, joint no longer flexing.  His coat was matted and oily; he was unkempt and understandably unsure of us. We expected him to start exploring our large garden but he seemed to be slightly agoraphobic, preferring to stay quietly on the balcony. At nightfall we left him there, wondering which of the four kennels in the yard he might choose as his own.

There was nothing Terrible about Ivan – Timorous might be a more appropriate epithet- especially that night when a violent thunderstorm broke out. We heard desperate pawing at the front door; when we opened it, this large dog, his fear palpable, shot in and cowered under the low coffee table, trembling! In his first week with us, as the weather remained very unstable, I was afraid the poor doggie thought he’d arrived in the House of Hell. Nothing could quell his fear of thunder claps – Thor was someone he’d decided he didn’t want to meet!  Gradually as the weather grew calmer, so did Ivan. Despite my initial attempts to render him a Highland ‘Iain’, with his dark colouring, strong frame and presence, he solidly remained a definite Ivan. 

                                                          

Early on he was found chewing decomposing morsels carefully selected from our rubbish or from the organic, garden compost pit. This behavior seemed to be a reversion to a previous time when such foraging was a survival strategy. He grew out of it quite quickly and instead learned to come to the breakfast table for flakes and peanut-butter before going walkies! As H. fed and brushed him regularly, he flourished. He began to show affection, coming to us to have his cheeks rubbed, his ears fondled, and his now-silky coat stroked, leaning against us for ‘closeness’. He derived comfort in finding dark, hidden places, little floral bowers he’d dig into, seeking out cool, damp soil in the heat.

                       

                  

Growing more courageous, he challenged birds; at dusk he assumed sentry duty, forbidding them to roost too close to the house! He went for longer forays into the garden, scenting out lizards, but never actually hunting them. Clearly, this garden had become his!  He became friendly with Daisy, the next- field-dog , exchanging brief kisses with her over the garden wall or at her gate as he went with H. on their morning and evening walks.  He’d never learned to play, so balls thrown to him remained where they landed, while he in turn threw a quizzical look , as if to say, ‘Why did you throw that at me?’  But if you clapped, jumped, and said, ‘Bravo, Ivan!’, he got excited and would often ‘take a daft turn’, rushing round the garden at great speed - gammy leg and all - in great  high spirits.He was sociable, welcoming family and friends warmly.  He had strength of character and great dignity.  He also had determination- he managed to do what none of our other three dogs had done – wangle his way inside the house! Attempts to chain him outside, in the hope he would become used to sleeping in the kennel at the back door, were in vain.  On the 3^rd night when it began to rain, his plaintive yelps weakened our resolve: he was brought in and remained a permanent resident from then on. He also learned that a paw pulling on the back door handle had an ‘Open, Sesame’ effect – he could now gain house access whenever he pleased and whenever loud scary sounds sent him scuttling for inside security.

 

 This spring he developed little nodules which rapidly united and became large lumps, ultimately causing pressure, making his breathing labored. He lost his appetite and began to waste away.  Last Saturday we decided to take our beloved canine companion on his last trip – to the vet’s surgery to put him out of his misery.  When it was time to say our goodbyes, he’d managed to go down the balcony stairs and we found him reclining in the shade of the conifer tree, stretched out by the side of the pool. That was one long journey he’d made from the original rubbish bin!

 To put our dog to sleep was a logical step to take, a rational one.  We were responsible for his well-being, he was suffering, so we were morally obliged to bring that to a close.  Emotionally, though, that step was a huge one to take: to knowingly snuff out the life, the breath of a fellow-creature, especially one dependent on you.  One cannot but feel guilt and overwhelming grief.  Yet, this is an unquestionable act of love.  While respecting life, and loving our gentle-dog, this was our only option: Euthanasia … Dognitas! 

 Man must have similar options available to him in similar situations!

Our one regret is that we delighted in his company for only ten short months. We laid him to rest in a shady place by the garden wall, along with his favourite biscuits and a sprig of lilac.

Tania requested I write another poem on the blog. Here is a Haiku-type one in honour of our doggie:

Our Ivan has gone

All around us nature mourns

In sweet shades of mauve.

 

We loved him dearly

He brought sunshine to our lives

….. kalo tou taxidi !

 

Spring has sprung and ...there is a JCB in my vegetable garden!

Apologies for delay in new posting. Two things came up : getting the veggie-patch up and running and last-minute preparation for the US university-entrance SAT examinations coming up on Saturday – good luck to all who are sitting them now. Anyway, everyone would have been otherwise involved in the wedding celebrations…..street parties, sarnie and char get-togethers, tissues at the ready! I’m so glad she didn’t agree to ‘obey’.

 Thanks to those who have, in the meantime, become followers  - welcome! J - or who have left comments - I will be getting back to you very shortly.

Spring has arrived and with it brought to mind a poem, an anonymous one featured in Arnold Silcock’s ‘Verse and Worse’. The following version, complete with Yiddish elements, I learned as a kid in the Highlands:

Spring is sprung

The grass is ris

I wonder where de boidies is?

De little boids is on the wing

 Ain’t that absoid?

-De little wings is on de boid!

In the Cottonfields we prepare for planting. Fortunately, following ten years of working the soil, it no longer requires the back-breaking, leg-jarring digging into compacted clay. Our neighbour is kind enough to come and surface-plough the overgrown weeds and grasses. Certainly, they need to be cleared, ready to  rotavate.                

But what about these olive trees in there? They’re in the shade of the conifers and, in turn, they block sunshine from the vegetable plants. They need to be moved. Which is where the JCB comes in. The driver can only come once his ‘day-job’ is over which is why, one mid-April evening, at dusk, this noisy monster invades our vegetable garden. The driver’s cabin is versatile and rotates, depending on which tool he wants to use : the great digger shovel or the robotic claw – the latter to be used on our unsuspecting olive trees. The space is limited so a great deal of delicate manoeuvering is needed to arrange the claw in the right place and at the right angle to best scoop at the soil to engage with maximum rootage. The skills of coordination required of the operator must be tantamount to those of airline pilots and the deed is done deftly and swiftly.  Like some great dendro-dentist, he tugs the molar-tree free from its base, levers it into the cradle of the claw and scoops it up to its new pre-prepared cavity. So, to continue the dental metaphor, this is a plant replant rather than an implant.

      

                                                         

The whole procedure was done so smoothly, although we’re talking really heavy equipment , and it was operated with such dexterity, that it appeared to be almost choreographed. I will now perhaps have to review my perceptions of Greek drivers! What I had not expected and what took my breath away was the gentle, caring way this huge claw turned itself inward and patted the tree into its new resting place.  A mechanical, yet maternal and majestic , final movement in this arboreal arrangement or, rather, rearrangement.

We were, however, left with huge craters and deeply embedded tread marks in our garden, which has to be re-rotavated. Then we can begin the planting of peppers, tomatoes and cucumbers.                             

                                

                                                     

    In the final shot you can see how we recycle old toilet roll bases to stop nasty, underground beasties eating the succulent young stems. You can also see doggie …………help with the watering!!