so tuscan it hurts

I spent last Saturday picking olives in the hills with friends of a friend. I was grateful for the opportunity, not least because I was far too hungover to comtemplate doing anything else. How you harvest olives is, you spread a big net out under the tree, tucking it up all cosy around the trunk, and then you go over every branch with a sort of plastic comb, with teeth spaced just right to collect all the olives but let the leaves pass through unharmed. There is something gentle and hypnotic about it, just as if you were combing some great creature’s hair. As you rake off the fruit the tree releases its oil, surrounding you in a spicy, citrus-pungent cloud, and the olives drop into the net with a sound like rain, and the leaves whisper as they path through the teeth of the comb.

The couple who own the trees are also in possession of a very charming two-year-old and an alsatian big enough to put its paws on your shoulders and lick your face. When one or another of the nets got good and full they would take turns rolling around in the purple-green piles, mixing in a goodly portion of slobber and mud. Despite the best efforts of these two, we collected 250kg in a day. The olives were pressed on the Sunday, and that night I ate the new oil, gorgeously green and sharp, with my dinner.