Saturday is market day. Nothing in particular that we really need but you never know what will present itself. Not a very busy day, although we go down about eleven, which is late by market standards and later than we would have gone if we had been looking for something that might be in short supply. Like the walk itself and the view of the village from the road in, which is not at sea level but not much above it. Do buy a litre of olive oil from one of the regulars, a woman who says it’s from their own olive trees. It’s a lot of work picking olives you know, she says. We do know, having helped Bill pick his in Pyla. By definition it’s first cold press when you take it to the village press and we’re delighted. She’s about to pack up. On her own today - and not here at all last week, as we noted, because her husband has been ill.
Pass the trees where the crows were gathering last time, and once again a murder. Dozens of crows gathering in the topmost branches, then swirling and landing again.
Posts
