There are images that stick in your mind and soul. One of them, recent, has been with me these past few days: the upper terraces of the farm, finally cleared, dressed in a golden tapestry of mown grass. The change is so profound that I still find myself going up for no apparent reason, just to contemplate them. It’s not just aesthetics; it’s the satisfaction of seeing a cycle close, of touching a small victory against abandonment, and of knowing that we have taken a firm step towards a more conscious model of agriculture.
When we acquired the farm, the upper terraces were lost territory. The weeds had colonized them with such force that they seemed inaccessible, a vague memory of what they once were. I was convinced that my neighbor’s tractor would never be able to maneuver through those narrow and tortuous accesses. It was one of those limiting beliefs that one invents without having really verified them. But the real surprise, one of those that reconciles you with optimism, came the day my neighbor came up with me to evaluate them. I remember his serene gaze as he calculated distances and turning radii. His verdict was as simple as it was devastating to my fears: "Of course I can get through, carefully and slowly, but it fits, the tractor fits."
Those words were the starting gun. Seeing the orderly terraces now, free from the tangled mess that was devouring them, produces an emotion difficult to explain. The result is something to be proud of. The brushcutter has worked close to the ground, leaving a clean canvas that, however, has not been tilled. Therein lies the key to what we have learned on this path to regenerative agriculture. That soil is not bare or wounded; it is protected by a vegetable mulch, an organic blanket formed by its own shredded grass. That layer will be its best armor when the heat hits hard, a shield that will preserve precious moisture and feed the microbial life teeming beneath the surface.
It’s impossible not to stop and think about the personal journey that accompanies this transformation. From Barcelona to these terraces. From the deafening noise of the city to the eloquent silence of the olive trees, only interrupted by the wind. Looking at the now so defined contour lines, I feel that, despite all the fears and insecurities that assailed me when I left everything behind, things are working out. Not by chance, but through skill learned day by day, through mistakes and small triumphs, and above all, through love for a land that has welcomed me without judgment. A land that I already feel is my own and that, year after year, rewards me with the most generous fruit: that extra virgin olive oil I dreamed of so much. The upper terraces are no longer a forgotten corner; they are the promise of a fertile future. The soil is ready. It knows the worst is coming, and we have given it the best possible defense: the cycle of life returning to the earth to protect it.
0 comments