Yesterday we went down the "path" from our village into town. It is a thousand-foot elevation drop through terraced olive groves and other people's chicken runs and it took us almost an hour, although we were almost certainly lost for part of that time. I don't remember the chicken runs from when I lived here and regularly walked down the path 40 years ago. But, then again, there is so much that I don't remember from 40 years ago. (You would think, though, that illegally crashing through someone else's chicken run would stick in the mind. It will now!)

The olive harvest will start soon and there are nets, still bundled up, strung in among the olive trees. When it is time to harvest them, the nets will be spread out a couple of feet off the ground and then the tree branches will be raked with long wide-toothed wooden rakes to bring the olives down onto the nets without damaging the trees.

The trusted gardener, Mimmo, is here now -- a kindly, white-haired man who will be around once or twice a week, depending on his other work. The olive harvest will take a lot of his time soon.

I cut a giant bunch of rosemary from the yard this morning and have it steeping now for rosemary-infused olive oil.