If there's a time when the olive grove demands almost reverential respect from me, it's now. Late April and all of May. The tree is at its most delicate time of the year: flowering and fruit set. And I, as an olive grower, become little more than a watchful guardian. Because here, on my farm, there's an added difficulty: all the water my olive trees need is the water that the sky has given us and what I've been able to conserve in the soil. There's no more.
Today I want to tell you what I am doing—and what I am not doing—in the olive grove. So you can understand why a good organic dry-farmed oil begins to be shaped precisely here.
The golden rule of May: don't even touch the tree
Okay, I'm exaggerating. I watch it constantly, every day. But I don't touch it. The olive blossom is extremely sensitive. Any product I put on it, even if it's organic, can interfere with pollination or directly damage the flower. So the sprayers are hung up. Nothing foliar is being done right now. Unless I detect a pest with levels that force me to intervene—and believe me, my organic thresholds are very high—nothing is sprayed on the leaves.
May is the month to walk among the olive trees with hands in pockets, a sharp eye, and ears wide open.
Dry-farmed and organic: the invisible labor that fights the water battle
This is where I truly put in the hours. Because on my farm, I don't have irrigation. Zero. All the water my olive trees will have to get through the summer is what has been stored in the soil after the winter and spring rains. And right now, that water is threatened by a silent competitor: weeds.
Mind you, I love ground cover. It has protected my soil from erosion and given me life for months. But now, in full bloom, that same grass is drinking the water I need for the olive fruit set. So I have no choice but to clear it.
How do I do it?
All mechanical. Brush cutter, nothing else. The grass is not uprooted; it's mown close to the ground and left as mulch. That plant mattress will be my best ally when the sun beats down: it slows evaporation, keeps the soil cool, and also, as it decomposes, provides the organic matter that these poor soils need so much.
Herbicides? Not in this house. No glyphosate or anything similar. Here, balance is achieved with machinery, with management, and with a lot of walking around the farm. The disc harrow, by the way, is also stored away. Tilling now would be to open the soil, lose accumulated moisture, and burn the little organic matter I've managed to build up. It would be shooting myself in the foot.
Every drop of water counts. My November harvest depends as much on the May blossoms as on the soil moisture that right now, as you read this, I am defending with a brush cutter.
The bugs that worry me (and how I deal with them without chemicals)
In organic farming, pest monitoring is not an option, it's an obligation. And right now, I have two areas of focus:
1. The ghost generation of the olive moth (Prays oleae)
The third generation is currently flying, the one that will lay its eggs on the freshly set fruit. If the pest gets out of control, I will have olive drop in September. What do I do? Monitor, monitor, and monitor. I have pheromone traps set up and I count catches. If the threshold is not reached, I don't intervene. And if treatment were necessary, in organic farming my main tool would be Bacillus thuringiensis, a natural bacterium that respects beneficial insects. But for now, silence.
2. The shot-hole borer, the beetle that comes from the village
In some plots I have near the urban center, the shot-hole borer is active at this time. Adults seek tender shoots to feed on and weaken the twigs. My organic strategy for it is preventive and cultural: trap wood strategically placed, which I then remove and burn before it reproduces; no pruning debris left lying around; and clean, bark-free trunks where it can take refuge. Here, the cleanliness of the farm is my insecticide.
The uncomfortable truth about the harvest that I like to tell you
And now for an important reflection. If you come to the farm now, you'd be amazed. The olive trees are loaded with flowers; it seems like AOVE will be coming out of our ears. But I must be honest with you: an exuberant bloom does not mean a record harvest. In June, the tree will do what it has known how to do for centuries: the physiological drop of St. John's. It will shed all the fruits it cannot feed with the water and nutrients it has available. And in dry farming, resources are limited.
This process is pure olive tree wisdom. It's its way of telling me: "don't ask me for more than I can give you." And I, who have been learning to read it for years, respect it deeply.
So now you see me less at the oil mill and more on the farm. Walking, looking at the sky, touching the earth with my hand to feel how much moisture is left, and smelling the fields. Because the best organic extra virgin olive oil is not made in the press. It begins to be woven now, in silence, with the only irrigation that rain allows and with the commitment not to add anything that nature has not designed.
If you fancy coming to walk among centenary olive trees and discover how life defends itself in an organic dry farm, this is the best time. Write to me and we'll go for a walk. I assure you that after stepping on this land, you will better know the taste of the oil that fills your kitchen.
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