Daily Mail, Saturday, August 17, 2019 Page 53Fed up with the drizzle
and gloom at home? Warm
your spirits with this sun-kissed
ode to summer from a best-selling
author who found a new life
(and love) in the South of France
centuries old, had been unveiled,
growing in statuesque glory — even
though they were in desperate
need of pruning — along a layered
hillside of dry-stone walled ter-
races. En restanque is the term for
such terracing here in Provence.
Today, I know that it is the oldest
form of Mediterranean irrigation.
That image of those venerable
trees was a turning point for me in
more ways than one. Later, I
was to circumnavigate the
entire Mediterranean —
eastern basin followed by
western — in my quest for
the history and long-buried
secrets of the olive tree.
Olive oil is the corner-
stone of Mediterranean
cuisine. This tree is the
thread from which the
tapestry of the Med has
been woven. But that
was all still to come.
What that April morn-
ing, standing alongside
the man who had
become my partner,
revealed to me was that
I had come home. Not
simply to the house we
were intent upon restor-
ing, but I had found a
spot where I could be at
peace. I think I can
safely claim that, until I met
Michel, until I embarked on this
new direction in my life — which
did not exclude past chapters but
wove them into the fabric of what
was becoming a new Carol — until
then, in spite of a certain degree of
success and fame as an actress, I
had been a lost, bruised soul.
Insanity, you might cry, to claim
that a species of tree, a patch of
land, a few balustrades, bricks and
mortar, could effectively give back
to a damaged heart a signpost, a
direction for survival.
But I stand by this. The healing
power of the natural world.
Everything I have written since is
imbued with the scents, the
textures, the colours, the tastes,
the history of the Medi-
terranean. And, of
course, the redeeming
power of love.
On that sunny, spring
morning years ago, I
gazed upon this magi-
cal house set within its
limestone rocks and semi-
arid landscape, lapped by
distant waves, and, without
understanding how it could
come to pass, I grasped that
a core place within me —
long-buried to better
protect myself againsthurt — had been touched. A knot
was beginning to unfasten.
I was standing face-to-face with
an unruly yet lyrical beauty. My
emotions were complicated,
unclear, but the moment lit me up
and imprinted itself on my memory,
as though the nature around me
was bidding me stay, offering to
heal me.
In my Mediterranean travels, I
have encountered olive trees that
have been scientifically dated at
6,000 to 7,000 years of age. They
are still fruiting and the fruits are
still being pressed to produce the
finest of golden olive oils.
To stand within the hollowed-out
trunk of a tree that boasts one
millennium, never mind seven, is a
humbling experience.
Between our farm and the Italian
border, on the outskirts of the
medieval village of Roquebrune-
Cap-Martin, high on the cliffs
above the sea, grows a magnificent
olive tree that was planted
between 1,800 and 2,200 years ago
by the Romans.
It’s a mere babe compared with
many I have come across in my
travels. Still, we frequently take
friends to admire its spreading
roots clinging to its rocky lane-side
enclave; to marvel at its longevity.
I find it utterly mind-blowing; itsmonumental presence. In the early
20th century, its owner wanted to
cut it down. Fortunately, a local
historian was so incensed at the
prospect of the tree’s felling that
he purchased the plot and
registered the tree, protecting it
for future generations.
With the sun beating down on
the Riviera, there is no better time
to see it than in mid-August.F
OR the Italians, this week-
end marks the first since
Ferragosto. This public
holiday — on August 15 —
has been celebrated since the reign
of Augustus Caesar, the first
Emperor of the Roman Empire,
while for the French and Catholics
elsewhere, it’s the feast of the
Assumption of Mary into Heaven.
This weekend is the midway
point in the summer holidays. The
beaches are heaving with families,
the restaurants are serving flat
out. Scents waft from burning
coals on barbecues, herbs on cin-
ders, the sardines marinated and
sizzling. The corks pulled on the
chilled wines. Glasses clinking.
Rosé is the region’s speciality.
The world is on holiday, relishing
carefree days, content within thecompany of loved ones; profiting
from sea-salted air, ball games on
the beach, splashing about in the
waves and scrumptious food.
Autumn will be here all too soon
and, along with it, olives — oleagi-
nous fruits to harvest in the
company of friends, who have
flown in specially to lend a hand,
to celebrate with us one of the old-
est of Mediterranean traditions.
Shadows will lengthen, the newly
pressed oil will be settling in
canisters in cool dark corners.
And then comes Christmas, the
time of oranges, ripening like bau-
bles on leathery-leaved evergreens.
Darkening evenings, robins on the
oleanders. Then, before you know
it, pale pink blossoms are bursting
open on the almond trees, the first
flower of spring, new year nectar
for the honeybees.
But, one day at a time. This
evening, we’re preparing delicious
sausages made by the wife of our
local butcher. We’ll grill them with
fennel and rosemary and watch
the stars in the night sky.
Life on our olive farm, halcyon
days. Each is precious, a cause for
delight. We cherish every one of
them; they are merely loaned to us
for a brief period.
n ThE house On The Edge Of The
Cliff is published by Penguin, £7.99.At one with the landscape: Carol among her olive trees at home
in Provence, where she can enjoy the local wine (inset)