The olive harvest has begun in earnest now and when we went down to the pub the night before last, the guys had been working hard and they stretched out their arms and their back muscles ruefully. "Porca miseria!" they say in mournful tones to show that they are tired now and will be sore when they start working again tomorrow. The harvest doesn't wait for anyone, though, and there will be time to rest in December. 

But we are happy because it is a good year despite the summer weather. The trees are full of olives.

They harvest the olives using long rake-like implements that reach up into the highest branches of the trees. But standing under the trees and reaching up all day like that is hard on the back and the neck and the arms.

And there are other bodily hazards. Claudio made us laugh telling us a funny story about looking up and a little olive falling and hitting him right in the eye. "Porca miseria!" he said and we all laughed. "Has that ever happened to you?" he asked Valerio. "Oh, sure," Valerio said. "Lots of times. Such a little olive, but when it gets you right in the eye ... porca miseria!" And then we all laughed and drank some more wine.

"Ah," I said to them, "but the fresh oil -- there is nothing better! Some new bread and a bit of fresh garlic and salt and the fresh oil, a glass of wine -- there is nothing I would rather eat in all the world. We are so lucky that we get to have it, even if it is hard work."

"Yes, that is true," Claudio said. "But all the same, I could just buy it in the store." Everyone laughed at the absurdity of such a thing.

Jonathan and I have no olive trees anymore now that we have moved to our new house and it is taken for granted by everyone in the pub that this is a sadness for us. Porca miseria!