Picking olives in Mystras

GREECE | Tuesday, 15 January 2008 | Views [536] | Comments [7]

On the outskirts of Sparta is a gem that few people know exist. It is called Mystras. Mystras is a medieval castle, what used to be a very important kingdom in Byzantine times. It is hard to convey how perfect this place is. Nestled against the mountain of Taygetos with its natural and abundant springs and the snow capped tip, it has an endless view on a (pediada) of olive and orange trees. In spring, the smell of orange flower and jasmine makes you dizzy. In winter, everyone works on the olive trees. December to January is the time when the branches are heavy with fruit. Generous tree, you do not make us work under the August sun. And it is work. Hard work. Backbreaking work. Very satisfying work. You do not pick olives, you harvest them and the tree gets a rough deal. Its fullest branches are sawn off and the rest of it is beaten till the olives fall off on the big canvasses that are laid out on the ground. Then you have to sort out some of the leaves and branches that are mingled with the olives and put them in the bags. Between the beating, the sorting, the moving around with the canvasses, you are wiped out at the end of the day. But your hands smell of fresh olive oil and your mind is clear. Greece cannot exist without the olive. It flows in the country’s blood. There cannot be a meal without it. It’s magic. So bitter off the tree and yet so delicious in all its guises. At the press, the oil is tasted as if it where wine. Every picker’s vintage is assessed. What was the yield. Whether the frost was detrimental. Whether there were too many leaves and branches mixed in with the fruit. It is tasted with grilled bread, salt and wine or raki. The brothers that own and operate the press have pink cheeks and smiley faces. Rotund shepherds with a tinkle in their eye and their jokes. Mum is the boss of our little family production. In the field we all argued endlessly, telling each other how to do things right and yet by the end of the day of working together, you come closer, you have shared something and you are joyfully exhausted. Nothing tastes like olive oil that you have picked yourself. Nothing looks like it either. And somehow it is fitting that Christ prayed in an olive grove and rode on a donkey. All three are in this country’s DNA. All three are moving and all three all blessed.

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