Picking Olives and Other Winter Excursions

First there were grapes to be picked and now there are olives. Olive trees blanket the area around Cotignac including several around our house. We’ve had a front row seat as the olives have developed. They started in the spring as tiny, little blooms developing into little, bitty olives like elfin grape clusters. They grew over the summer with the first touches of black appearing in October. First they were black and shiny and are now beginning to shrivel – perfect for picking.

In the last couple of weeks we saw people in the olive groves with small baskets, but we couldn’t imagine that these vast groves would be picked by hand. Periodically, I’d see someone with a net under a tree apparently gathering olives that are shaken off the tree. But for the most part, the picking was being done by hand. We learned that many of the trees died several years ago in an unusually hard freeze. But, the roots were still alive and small trees grew up from the original trunks. The effect is sculptural with clusters of small olive trees encircling an old stump. Groves and groves are like this.

Our rental agent, Ruth Teale, knew that I wanted to pick olives to add to my catalog of experiences. She graciously offered to let me help her with the trees in her yard. How very nice of her! The date was set for December 3rd - if it didn’t rain.

I arrived at Ruth’s house mid-morning on a beautiful, sunny, but cold day. Frost was on the ground and crunched as I walked across her yard. I was greeted by a very enthusiastic Toby – with a pink ball in his mouth. Clearly, I was there to play with him! Ruth warned that whatever I did I should NOT throw the ball or else that’s how I would spend the rest of my day. So Toby followed us around carrying a red ball, or an orange ball, or a black chew toy. He seemed to think that he would eventually find something to entice a throw.

Ruth gave me a basket for olives with gaps in the sides and bottoms so that errant leaves would fall through. I’m not sure how well that worked, but it sounded good. The basked had a long ribbon tied to the sides so that it hung around my neck leaving both hands free for picking. Ruth did the hard part. She spent the day on a ladder reaching the olives in the upper branches. Only the blue of her sweater was visible inside the branches. Because of the cold I quickly decided that the olives on the sunny side of the tree needed to be picked first! There’s really nothing to it. Just grab a branch and pull off a handful of olives and drop them in the basket. If you’re good, the basket will be directly under the branch so that the olives drop right in – hopefully with few leaves. We picked and chatted for two hours. There was never a lull in the conversation as we compared notes on living in France. Ruth, originally from the UK, has been in this area for 20 years, living first in Cotignac and now in Varages, an even smaller village. When she’s not throwing balls to Toby she manages house rentals. Mike and I are thankful every day that we found Ruth. (To contact Ruth, see www.chezdomaine.com)

With frozen fingers and toes, we stopped for a wonderful, warm lunch which Ruth prepared – cream of mushroom soup, shepherd’s pie, salad and fruit. I was sorry there weren’t more trees so I could get another hot, hearty meal like that! We dawdled as long as we could before tackling the last two trees. This time Toby changed his strategy. My basket was on the ground while I picked a few low hanging olives. The next time I looked, Toby had brought a small stick, put it in my basket in the hopes, and was looking at me in the hopes that maybe THIS time I’d throw it. He was great entertainment! By the middle of the afternoon we were frozen again. Black clouds hid the sun making the cool temperatures feel cold and edgy. Fortunately, we finished the trees and had two boxes of olives to show for our efforts. After a warm cup of tea, we set out for the olive mill in Varages as splotches of fat, wet snow flakes fell. We weren’t the only olive pickers that day. Along the road, cars were parked, one after the other, from people working in the olive groves.

So here’s how it goes. Each little village has its own olive mill – the cooperative. The mill opens about 4PM after that day’s picking is done. We arrived early and were the third car in line. Ruth said that in the past she has waited an hour or more to deliver her olives. When our turn came, we unloaded our two boxes and dumped them a larger box with everyone else’s olives. They weighed the difference and found that we’d picked 22.5 kilos that day – not bad. And, a friendly gentleman with scruffy hair and a plaid, flannel shirt gave us a tour of the olive mill.

We were shown to the side entrance and warned to watch our step. The floor was covered with oil and water. They are not allowed to use detergents to wash anything while olives are pressed so that there’s no chance of contaminating the oil. The air was pungent with mashed olives and it was thankfully warm inside. We watched our olives go through a washer and into a large vat where two stone wheels rolled over the olives – pits, stems and all – to mash them into a pulp. This is the traditional method which isn’t used in all the mills these days. This cooperative won a prize in Paris for their high quality oil.



Each batch is tested to ensure that none of the trees were treated too close to picking time. If the tests indicate an inappropriate treatment, the staff go through each person who contributed to that batch, checking trees to find the culprit who can be fined for this infraction. The pulp is slightly heated and used to saturate round pads that are stacked like donuts between metal plates until they are about three feet high. The pads and plates are put into a press that squeezes out olive oil and water. The water is separated and the oil stored in vats where the sediment settles over a three month period. A final machine screens out the smallest particles leaving behind clear, green olive oil – Voila! Ruth will return in February to collect bottles of oil that equate to the kilos of olives that she brought in. She’ll have olive oil from her very own olives!

Olive harvesting isn’t our only cold weather activity. We’re making an effort to be out and about in the sun even if the temperature is chilly. For months we intended to hike Mt. Sainte Victoire – the mountain outside of Aix that Cezanne made famous. Finally, this week we made it. What a journey! It was 12 kilometers long and 600 meters up…up…and up. It was a steady climb with no flat spots. The trail was very rocky with small pellets of frozen snow between the stones. Pine trees lined the trail and rocky cliffs were visible all around. The higher we got the frostier the shrubs became. Even Mike’s hat developed frost on it! The Alps started to peek out, snow covered, in the far distance. They made a stunning ring of white across the horizon. But the higher we went the colder we became with a slight, freezing wind blowing up the mountain side. The climb ended at the ruins of a 12th century priory on top of which a chapel and monastery were built in the 17th century. Just a few meters above the priory, is the Croix de Provence – a large cross that is visible from the autoroute far below. We’ve driven past it many times never dreaming that we’d see it up close. But we didn’t see it for long. When we finally reached the top, we quickly snapped some photos, grabbed a few dried apricots and raisins with frozen fingers and headed back down….fast. As Mike said, the bottom would feel like Miami by comparison. In reality, our “Miami” was only in the high 30s. Those heated seats in the car never felt better! We were proud of our accomplishment, tired and ready to go home. But –

Our washer is broken. Yep. The code d’erreur says that the motor is broken. Ruth is dispatching someone to fix it. They came last week, but, in typical fashion, it worked fine for the repairman. Of course it did. Now it’s broken again. So on our way home, we stopped at the Cotignac laundromat – Le Laverie. We had to laugh as we hauled dirty sheets and laundry out of the trunk of the Mercedes and into the laverie. It felt very Beverly Hillbilly-ish. We were in the real French Laundry! After translating the instructions and starting the wash, we skedaddled to the Café de Cours for warm coffee and tea. We piled wet laundry back into the car to take it home to dry. Not exactly what I was hoping for at the end of a long day of hiking – but, we fell into bed on crisp, clean sheets. Now, that’s the perfect end to a satisfying, frosty, winter day in France.