There are tasks on the farm that you look forward to. There are others that you put off, ponder over, and overthink. Pruning the large olive trees, the old ones, those with branches that look like feet deformed by time, is one of those tasks that commands my respect. A lot of respect. But it is also true that there is no greater satisfaction than seeing how a young tree turns out after having guided it well from the beginning. And this week I have experienced both sides of this profession.
From Barcelona to the countryside: my reinvention
Allow me to tell you something. I don't come from a family of farmers. I come from Barcelona. From the asphalt, the metro, the hustle and bustle. My profession for many years had nothing to do with the land. And one day, by one of life's whims, I decided to change everything. To leave the city behind and take over an olive grove. To produce extra virgin olive oil. To become an olive grower.
And I'm doing it. Little by little. Learning on the fly. With mistakes and with small triumphs that taste like glory. Because I love what I do. I love every olive tree as if I had planted it myself, even though some have been here longer than I've been alive. And it is that love that makes me wake up every morning with excitement and with that mix of respect and fear that only someone who starts something new from the heart feels.
The fear of harming the big ones
I have to be honest: I'm better at pruning small trees and, above all, shaping what I pruned two years ago. I look at those, study them, and know where to cut. But the gray ones, the olive trees that have been planted there for decades and have twisted, foot-like branches, scare me a lot. I feel like I'll hurt them. That any branch I cut will be a mistake that we'll carry for years. That the chainsaw in my hands is more of a threat than a tool.
I think it's a healthy fear. If I ever lose it, that's a bad sign. Because pruning an old olive tree is not just cutting for the sake of cutting. It's reading the tree, understanding how it breathes, imagining how the light will enter next year and how that wound you're now making will heal. And that, I admit, still overwhelms me with certain specimens.
But that's the beauty of having reinvented myself. Every day I learn. Every tree teaches me. And I, who come from a world where everything was immediate, have discovered here that good things take time. That the earth is not in a hurry. And I, little by little, am learning not to be either. Because in the end, all this effort, all this overcome fear, translates into an extra virgin olive oil that carries the soul of this land and my own story of reinvention.
The neighbor and friend, the best instruction manual
Good thing I have the neighbor. He really knows. He's been among olive trees his whole life and his hands have the memory that I still lack. When he comes and helps me with the big ones, he doesn't just save me work: he gives me advice that's worth more than any course. "Be careful with that one, it's an inside branch and if you remove it, it will unbalance the tree," he tells me. Or "let's leave this one, it will still bear good fruit next year."
And I learn. I keep quiet, I watch, and I learn. Because good pruning isn't about making the trees look pretty, it's about making sure they will produce the best possible harvest with the right amount of water we have. And in dry farming, every badly cut branch is energy that the tree will have to spend on recovering instead of producing olives. And every olive counts. Every drop of extra virgin olive oil that will come from them depends on decisions like this.
When I arrived here, I didn't even know how to hold the tools. Now, two years later, my hands still tremble with the big ones, but the neighbor tells me I'm doing well. And hearing it from him is the greatest endorsement I can have.
0 comments