The Olive Grove – Part 1: Under the Net

"Gently," said Nikolas. "You shake the branch, not the tree."

"It's the same thing."

"It is not. The tree is old. Be kind."

Jonas laughed from the top of the ladder and gave the branch a smaller shake. A shower of dark purple olives pattered down onto the net below. It was early December in the hills above Kalamata, and the sun lay warm and low over a sea of silver-green trees. The air smelled of crushed leaves and woodsmoke. Somewhere down the valley, a donkey brayed.

Jonas, thirty, a software engineer from Utrecht, had signed up as a harvest volunteer to escape a winter of screens. Nikolas, thirty-three, the son of the grove's owner, was tall and sun-browned, with dark curls under a faded cap and olive stains on his forearms. He ran the harvest crew with unhurried good humour, and sang as he worked.

"You sing very badly," said Jonas.

"I sing beautifully. It is the trees that are tone deaf."

By the end of the first week Jonas could climb a ladder with a basket without looking down. He knew the names of the trees, Old Maria, the Twins, the Giant. He learned to peel the thin black skins and taste an olive straight from the branch. The crew ate lunch together in the shade, bread, cheese, tomatoes, wine from an unlabelled bottle, and the old men teased him about his accent.

On the last evening, as the sun dropped gold into the sea, Jonas and Nikolas sat on the stone wall at the edge of the grove, sharing a flask.

"I don't want to go," said Jonas.

"Then do not."

"I've a flight on Sunday."

"I know." Nikolas turned the flask in his hands. "Jonas. May I say something? I am not good at this."

"Say it."

"I would like to kiss you. If you would like that."

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Press.

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Press.