Cote d’Azur: Our Olive Tree Harvest

There is something quite magical about the taste of olive oil fresh from the press. The rich aromas, the grassy, buttery flavor, as you dip your baguette into the thick green-yellow oil, savouring the peppery, spicy aftertaste—it is an experience you will never forget.

October and November on the Cote d’Azur mark the beginning of the olive oil harvest. It is a convivial time of year. All the neighbours come together to help each other harvest their trees so that everyone has a supply of olive oil for the following year. All the harvesting is done by hand, so teams of seasonal workers come from different parts of Europe to help the larger properties with their harvests.

We have forty-two trees, so there are not that many trees to harvest. Our gardener, who has lived in Le Tignet all his life, informed us that while some of the olive trees are quite young, 50 years old, others are between 150 and 200 years old. You can tell by the size of the trunk. So, in October of our first year, we decided to try harvesting them.

My husband and I thought

How hard could it be?:

All the neighbours were preparing to harvest, too, so we observed with eager curiosity. We set aside a weekend, hired the equipment, and purchased some nets and crates. We were ready to begin.

First, we had to cut the green netting. This needs to be spread out around the base of each tree to collect the olives as they fall. Then a machine called a “gaule” (“a long pole”) is used to knock the fruit from the tree. It is quite heavy, but I must say that using this pole to shake the olives from these
ancient branches is a lot of fun.

Of course, the olives fly everywhere. Someone needs to collect the stray olives and put them back on the net. This job is not fun. While I thought we were relatively fit, picking olives is a very hard day’s work.

Once all the olives are picked, they are put through a particular machine called an “effeuilleur“(“leaf stripper”), which removes all the leaves. Our olive trees produce a melange (“blend”) of green and black olives. You may be surprised to learn that green and black olives are not different varieties but at different ripeness levels when picked. The green ones are not quite ripe.

Then, they are ready to take to the Moulin a Huile (“oil mill”). In the surrounding villages of Spéracèdes and Saint-Vallier, some of the Moulin a
Huile operate as co-operatives. Everyone books a time to drop off their olives and collect their oil. Eventually, our turn came to drop off our precious olives, which were weighed, and we received a piece of paper with the conversion into litres.

As my husband had allocated me the task of taking the olives to the Moulin a Huile, I was lucky enough to meet some of the characters who worked there. After an obligatory sampling of the thick, peppery first pressing, the Monsieur in charge enquired,

What is an Australian doing in the small French village of Saint-Vallier?”. “Oh, I replied,” “I am married to a Frenchman and it has always been a dream for me to live in France.”

Sipping on a small glass of red, he wasted no time wanting to know whether he was from the area. “No, I said, he was born in Paris”. He quickly responded, crossing himself,

God save the Queen.” When I explained he had lived in Australia for thirty-five years, he appeared relieved, and we both laughed.

 

The first year, we received seventeen liters, which was enough (after giving a lot away to friends) to give us a year’s supply of olive oil. It is amazing how much olive oil a household uses in a year, so in the end, it is worth all the hard work.

The following year, we also got some help, as it is quite a time-consuming and labour-intensive job.  Even our dog Pedro tried to help with the nets.

all images copyright the author

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