Veteran Tim says he wants another year and my pal the Euroloon Jonathan Price is threatening to make his debut although he is worried that as a result of Brexit he will be stuck in a passport queue at Athens airport for weeks. For the two of them and other potential harvesters, notably veteran J and Mr and Mrs L, a report back from Kambos and the Greek Hovel.
What was Miranda’s the tiny taverna at the top of the square has yet another new owner, a chap called George who was, until now, a builder. His opening hours and days are rather unpredictable but the food is not bad and is cheap, albeit from a limited menu. His Greek salad is the best in town.
Elsewhere on the square Thomas plies his trade with what might be termed a flexible pricing structure, chatting up the tourists with tales of home grown produce. The locals thus continue to shun him but when what was Miranda’s is not open needs must and his pork steaks are great. And down by the olive press the ouzerie’s food gets better and better. So that is all good.
One or two familiar faces have disappeared heading to the great ouzerie in the sky. The Kambos population of c360 is old. These things happen. Young folks find the bright lights of Athens or even Kalamata an irresistible alterative to a life toiling in the fields with the snakes. But overall, life in Kambos is very much unchanged with the Kourounis café run by lovely Eleni still the heart of the village. As foreigners we are a rarity but everyone is incredibly nice to us, helping out with various issues. The faces of he old ladies light up as Joshua and Jaya wander past talking of the ice creams at Kourounis.
The last chore here, the strimming of the grass all around the house and pool is done and, mentally, I am starting to think about what to do when I get back to Wales. It seems that the rains have upset an old cooking apple tree so there is more firewood to chop, store and dry for 2027. No doubt the weeds have flourished in my absence. There is more ice cream to make (olive oil flavour and choc chip mint) for Sharestock. I am even starting to think about Christmas plans, the bonfire night party and after last year’s Christmas Carol party about hosting another.
As usual, my Christmas tree has died within a year and will be making its final appearance on Bonfire night. I am pondering how to plant a tree this year that will survive more than 12 months. I have a cunning plan.
And that brings me to the olive harvest at the Greek Hovel which we will do one side or another of Christmas. A lot can happen between now and then to reduce the yield: flies or more probably a big storm. But even if God plays no tricks on us, I fear that the harvest will not be good. I have not walked all the land as I am loathe to wade through long grass at this time of year for obvious reasons. But the trees around the house are really not looking that great.
My predicton is that if we bust a gut we will get enough oil to take home 15-20 litres and to pay the fees of the press and that is it, we shall have none to sell. So economically it makes little sense but strategically it does for me at least. Being a harvester like all the locals puts me in good standing. They can laugh at how badly we tie bags, how many leaves are in our sacks and how little we harvest. But it is a kindly laugh and so if a favour is needed folks will help us.
And, as Tim planning his fifth trip will tell you, the harvest, the evenings in a smokey Miranda’s drinking ouzo and a late night Metaxa back at the hovel watching Inspector Morse are fun.