TelegraphIn the Hills of Lazio, Louise Roddon Learns How to Bring in the Olives...
Naria and her sister Claudia look across at me and nudge each other. "Non cosi!" they laugh. "Not like that - e troppo forte! More gently!"
Lifting my wooden pole and hand, I aim, once again, for the topmost branches - trying hard to free elusive olives thathang from spindly Harvesting an olive tree is a bit like tackling unruly tangles in a giant's head of hair. And as I work, so pale silvery leaves begin their confetti spin down through the branches, swiftly followed y a battering of bullet-like tiny green fruit. "Bene, bene!" the sisters chorus their approval.
But this exercise is not all about miming a rustic version of pole dancing. Later, I am balancing on a ladder some 10 feet off the ground in an attempt to reach the hidden drupes - and from this height, I can make out the soft green hills surrounding the Valle del Maria, where leafy corkscrew lanes lead up to the biscuit coloured ancient towers of Tarquinia.
It is early November - the start of the olive harvest here in northern Lazio. The frenzy of Rome lies about an hour's drive south, yet in the cooler altitude of this remote province, set on the knee of Italy, calm reigns.
Helping harvest olives on a family smallholding had sounded an attractive proposition. A bit of fresh air, the chance to get under the skin of rural Italy through meeting and working with locals, and then, of course, the opportunity to watch the fruits of my labour being pressed and transformed into the moss-green nectar of Italian extra-virgin olive oil.
Already I am anticipating the boasting that will prove a highly enjoyable by-product, as I return home with impressive tales, and make delicious dishes with my own oil.
The Cucchiarelli family has a small grove adjoining its farmhouse, set halfway up a hillside. There are roughly 100 trees neatly aligned in terraces, and six of us workers. Over the next two or three days, they expect each harvester to gather about 154 lbs of olives. Out of that will come about nine gallons of extravirgin olive oil - a lot, you may think, for one family, but then the average annual consumption in Italy stands at about two gallons per person.
The time is ripe for picking, the sisters tell me. Picking the olives too soon, when the fruit is a bright green, will not produce a top quality oil. Leave them to mature to a purple-black, and the olives start to oxidise, producing an oil with a bitter and unpleasant taste.
These local canino olives, Maria demonstrates, pushing her thumbnail into the firm yet cushiony dark green flesh, are spot on, and they need to be gathered and delivered to the mill within 48 hours to avoid I deterioration. Maria and Claudia's father, Leone - a stocky 70year-old with a bashed-in face that supports a pungent- smelling cigarette - have divided us into two groups, wisely balancing the amateurs with professionals.
My group of three has Leone circling around us, flapping his short arms and bellowing instructions. We're helped by Lorne Blyth, a young Scottish woman whose company, Flavours of Italy arranges cooking holidays in this region. Harvesting olives is a sideline to her Lazio weekend cookery course in the hilltop village of Tolfa - a half hour's drive away -- and Lorne's perfect Italian ensures we know what we are doing.
Most of the larger estates use the speedy "Guliver agevolatore", - pronged a two battery-run vibrating contraption that promises to "caress" the olive tree. Leone is adamant that the hand method is best. "Less bruising," he explains, shaking his head gravely. Doesn't the rake do just as much damage? "Not if you're careful."
So here I am, holding on for dear life, lifting away branches that flick back and bash me in the face, and reaching to olives that I mustn't rough-handle. The nets, spread below each tree like vast j moth-eaten picnic rugs, catch the olives that my hands miss. Already my neck and back ache with the effort of it all.
We stop for lunch - an al fresco spread of oil-doused bruschetta with tomatoes and anchovies, crude local ham and wine, and a striated block of pecorino cheese. By the time the sky dims to a thunderous deep blue. our picking, stint has finished, and we must gather the fallen olives and I transfer them into plastic crates. Leone bends, gathers and lifts with disarming ease. He shoots aI scornful grin as we rub our backs.
Next morning, rain deluges the hills and raindrops as big as saucers splash noisily on the terrace of our villa. There will be no harvesting today. for though some rain is essential for that extra burst of growth, at this late stage it swells the fruit yet ' diminishes the oil. I feel for the Cucchiarellis. Two or three days must be left before they attempt their second bout of harvesting, otherwise the olives will grow mouldy in their crates.
And so, following the calm of the groves, we go to the rage of noisy machinery. "Che diavoto!" ("What a disaster!") mutters Francesco Scibilia, peering out of his dusty window at the deluge. We are at Frantoio Fratelli Scibilia, an olive press converted from an old munitions factory just outside arquinia.
This family business was set up some 30 years ago when the Scibilias moved from Calabria to Lazio. Their customers cover an extensive area - some 35,000 acres, from the borders of Tuscany over to Montalto di Castro in Lazio.
Over the deafening thrum of machinery, Francesco proudly shows us a calendar that features truly ancient olive trees - the trunks knotted and gnarled, the branches twisted into contortions that defy gravity. Olives are clearly in his blood. The air is rich with the dense, nose-pricking aroma of pulped fruit, the floor slippery underfoot. Flies buzz around machinery that looks like an extravagant Heath Robinson invention - and at the entrance crates of olives, including ours, are lined up to be weighed on a huge metal floor scale.
Above the din, Francesco mouths his explanation of the machines. We watch our olives being denuded of leaves and twigs, before cascading into a revolving mill that grinds both fruit and pit to a pulp, The resulting mush is spread on stacked mats, and then pressed to remove the oil. A centrifuge separates the oil from the water, and finally the liquid appears.
"Try it!" urges Francesco - proffering rough bread and a dish of our oil. It lacks the goldenyellow fruitiness of a Spanish oil, or the pungent peppery taste of a Greek one. Nevertheless, this deep green, grassy-flavoured nectar is delicious. And that evening, armed with my produce, and under the guidance of Luciana, Flavours of Italy's cook, we impress the assembled party with an assortment of antipasti liberally sprinkled with oil. Thankfully, there was enough to take back home.
TELEGRAPH TRAVEL
18th September 2006
