Finca Factors

         The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. It’s a memorable little phrase used, I believe, in the teaching of enunciation but, as it’s been lodged in my brain since childhood, I’ve always imagined it to be true of Spanish weather systems. This latest sojourn in Spain may have cured me of that misconception.

         After a few days in Valencia, we are spending some time with our friend who lives, off grid, on a finca halfway up the coast towards Barcelona. It’s situated a kilometre or two from the coast, in foothills, so it gets a cooling breeze in summer. But the night we arrived, all our phones lit up with alarms warning of imminent torrential rain. It was noon the next day before the downpour – dramatically accompanied by thunder and lightning – ceased as abruptly as it had started.

          Our first morning was spent bailing out a flooded room on the ground floor, carrying buckets across the yard to lower-lying ground. The biblical downpour made a mockery of waterproof clothing, so my swimming trunks, which I almost didn’t bother to pack, came in handy after all.

          The experience, however brief, of living on farmed land serves as a reminder that we are all at the mercy of the elements and that the food we consume does not originate in the supermarket. In this corner of the world, the combination of soil and climate, when in balance, is productive of olives, carobs and almonds.

          This finca and several others around it are no longer owned and operated by native farming families: they have been bought by foreigners whose living is not dependent on selling produce but whose interest in continuing some of the traditions is passionate, nevertheless. This seems to apply particularly to the production of olive oil. Specifically, to attaining the highest quality, organic, virgin, first-pressing, small batch variety that can’t be sold (unless certification is obtained) but can be consumed by themselves and appreciative friends, especially those who have reached aficionado level. We are here just as the olives are due to be harvested and have become involved in the process.

          Harvesting times are fraught with concern. The weather plays a crucial role in determining the outcome, so timing is critical. The process is also communal – neighbours help each other with the work – so we have observed the discussions and rising levels of anxiety among our friends here.

          In order to get their desired result, the olives must be picked and pressed without delay. Furthermore, the pressing has to be done at a certified organic mill, preferably before the equipment has been tainted by someone else’s batch, which means a timeslot must be booked in advance, which in turn puts pressure on ensuring an efficient (some would say frantic) harvesting session. In the days running up to this, we had three people frequently consulting several different weather forecasting apps, before agreement was finally reached on a schedule that could work – so long as the weather window held open.

          I lent a hand, stripping the olives from the branches with a stubby rake, but any notion I harboured of a romantic, bucolic peasant experience – cheerfully working together in the autumn sunshine, occasionally slaking one’s thirst with sangria and fuelling one’s belly with tasty tapas – was immediately quashed by the no-nonsense urgency of gathering and transporting the fruits of our labours. Yes, there was a good lunch at the end but, by then, arguments were simmering over whether the process might have been better planned and expedited.

          All that will be forgotten, I hope, when the golden oil finally flows at the dinner tables of friends and neighbours and the taste buds yield their verdict. Eventually, talk will turn to whether the weather will be kind to the crops next year. Another useful phrase for the perfection of enunciation is ‘trepidation precedes anticipation of precipitation in an Iberian nation’.