Olive Oil – please note that from 1st of April, 2013, the price of our fresh, award-winning, arbequina extra virgin olive oil will be:
£39 for a case of 6x500ml bottles,
£17.50 for 2 litres
£37.50 for 5 litres
£150 for 20 litre bag in box
See our shop to order. More and more people are appreciating fresh olive oil – and our pledge of freshness, quality and provenance.
We are facing increases in production and transport costs, but we will continue to work very hard alongside our fellow village cooperative farmers to bring you the finest olive oil at a sensible price – still for as little at £7.50 a litre. As always we will put the pressing and bottling dates on every container.
Any questions, or if you have large orders (to share with family, friends, through a food cooperative, or if you are a deli or health food shop) then please get in touch before ordering to see how you can save money .
The storms have abated. The enraged river has lowered its voice.
Tiny insects, winged flecks of gold dust, sail through evening sunbeams. The shafts of light fan between the budding pear trees while the scent of freshly cut grass swells to meet them. Wild flowers, spring’s courtiers, bustle for attention fussed over by bees, and the call of the returning oriol and the drumming of the woodpecker proclaim abundance.
So strong is the beak of the bird that the rhythm rebounds off the mountain ridge, now snow free and sweetened by new growth on the pines. I sit by the talkative water pouring from our Roman aquifer at 1000 litres an hour, faster than it ever has in our 12 years at Mother’s Garden.
All is beginning and yet, perhaps, something is about to end.
Why would anyone think of leaving this? Yes, we are. Let me tell you why.
Some of you discerned in my last blob from the Garden that, after spending nearly a quarter of our lives here (and much of those of our children), Maggie and I seemed a little unsettled.
Indeed. We have been facing facts and agree it is time to take another deep breath, another positive stride.
Ella will be at university in England from September. Joe is ready for new challenges too.
And we know that our growing fresh olive oil business in England can flow even faster if we give it more oxygen and cease gasping to fit it in between the increasingly demanding challenges of tending a multi-fruiting organic farm and running a holiday cottage.
How great the fulfilment of bending to the challenge of an ecological existence at an age when we still could bend. How much we have gleaned and stored. But the sheer physical endeavours are unsustainable, naturally, and like all we need to balance truths.
The creep of age is punctuated with stark waypoints, like the dismantling of the long-unsafe tree-house, the suddenly impossible flexibility of seeing the soles of my shoes without taking them off.
And there is another reason to recalibrate. I crave time to write daily, to unburden my cerebral filing cabinet of tales. There is the Norfolk film script Moon Daisy now looking for funding (more next month), with another script and two books in the wings. Maggie, my editor, could not be more supportive.
Plan A: To relinquish this treasure trove of 10 acres and to base ourselves in South Norfolk, buying a smaller olive grove here and returning regularly to tend olives and beehives: to remain members of the cooperative and build on all we have learned and shared.
Plan B: To sell the cottage and half the farm, and keeping the old farmhouse and olive grove as our business base while spending the majority of our time in England, closer to family, renting somewhere, and bandwaggoning the Mother’s Garden olive oil message hither and thither.
We shall see what plan comes to fruition. If anyone would like to discuss one or other we would be happy to chat.
It seems now like we are in the eye of the storm, with the troubled waters of decision behind us and the unchartered upheaval ahead. We wait as news spreads, hoping that the right person will appear, appreciative of the magic and wisdom to be found here; someone who will love it.
And now that we are decided there is great optimism and certainty.
Without sadness but with immense gratitude to my family and with brimful fulfilment I see the momentous years everywhere I turn, and feel them; the shadows of tiny children running bare-footed after puppies; splashes of freedom and glee; shouts of adventure from the woodland; harvests of the garden, grove, vineyard and the wild; Maggie planting, pruning and choosing roses for the table, out there until dusk, then standing with me by the back door to feast upon the stars; the weight of my son on my forearm, his fist full of asparagus: And louder than all, the music of innumerable treasured evenings when our kitchen became a dance theatre and forever more the heart of everything that really matters in the precious feeling of this family, this life.
There – my heart thumps at the thought of leaving our kitchen. The head needs to prevail in the ubiquitous human wrestling of standstill wishes with relentless realities.
The immeasurable worth of nature is the most important thing we have learned above all. Seeded in it is sustenance, realistic values and fulfilments, the core roots of family. I make no apology for raising my voice now and in the future about the abject failure and greedy resistance of society’s single-minded economic dictators to change course.
Common sense and conscience: we all know what feels wrong, what is unfair, unsustainable, illogical, damaging, hollow and abhorrent. Heaven knows what our children and grandchildren will make of this woeful generation of leaders for not deal with the glaringly obvious home truths.
What will the legacy be?
In rambling to photograph the raging river I paused twice, once to ponder on the significance of the long-deceased Seat 500 on our neighbour’s farm, and then again to stare at another mountain we have just climbed.
Ella and Joe have been planning a fund-raising ascent of La Mola, the Snowdonia-sized limestone monolith that watches over us. If that wasn’t a great enough endeavour theypledged to their generous £800 Comic Relief sponsors that they would spend the night up there. Mmm.
We have done it now. A rare and unforgettable experience that I will tell you about soon.
Theirs have been relatively wild childhoods, freer than most if you dare to dwell upon the unbelievable pressure applied to the young these days in ways that families cannot hope to protect them from. Bean-counting pedlars who think it is fine to rob them of their innocence and herd them into anxiety-driven consumerism make me so very angry, but not as much as does the system that encourages them.
Sorry. I do this a lot don’t I?
On a positive note, I do sense an awakening of public conscience to the destructive, materialistic, blind path along which we have all be led.
Can I leave you with others’ wise words? I have just read the allegorical tale The Man Who Planted Trees, by Frenchman Jean Giono (1895-1971). If you don’t know it, let me tell you it is of the greatest beauty, something that simply gifts the notion, the hope, that we can renew the whole earth: That in the living force of nature humanity can rediscover the depth and harmony lost in urban life. The edition I hold, one of more than a dozen issued since Vogue first published it in 1953, has the added delicacy of woodcut illustrations by Michael McCurdy.
And then to Adrian Bell. All his books rise in a Pisa pile beside our bed. So much wisdom.
“We clutter the minds and call it knowledge. Why, if a man knew intimately the story of what lies between the soil in his right hand and the flour in his left, he would be splendidly, superbly, educated. In our so-called education we substitute written notes for memory. Notes are dissected bones, memory is alive, imaginative. We cram the youth with facts and figures and take away from the man the one thing needful for his manhood, the power to be alone with himself in nature.
“Britain has many places of wild beauty, and many gentle places of seclusion. He may stand on a height surveying six counties or in a corner of an orchard watching a bird building its nest. It is all one. If that power of vision were held intact through the difficult years from his childhood, he would need but few of those facts as a foundation on which to build a complete life. Multiplicity of materials does not build beauty but babel.”
Have you ever tried fresh olive oil? What does that mean? Olive oil is simply a fruit juice with the water content spun out of it. Freshness is vital for all the flavour and extraordinary goodness, and when it is fresh the taste and scent it amazing.
So how do you know it is fresh? All olive oils will have a best before date on them, sometimes very long, but do the labels tell you when the fruit was picked and pressed? Almost certainly not.
Mother’s Garden always tells you the harvest and bottling dates so you can be sure of the freshness. And we also tell you about our award-winning village cooperative mill, so you are in no doubt about the the provenance and quality.
That is why our olive oil is a multi-gold award winner in the Great Taste Awards.
We believe passionately in fresh quality olive oil, and do not think this essential food should cost the earth. It is not a luxury but a vital part of the diet.
Check out our online shop – or see below for delis and health food shops that are offering our fresh olive oil on tap, cutting waste and price. These are places full of wonderful foods.
The Nutmeg Deli, 3 Sayers Lane, Tenterden, Kent, TN30 6BW. 01580 764125
The Larder, Cobholm, The Medicine Garden, Downside Road, Cobham, Surrey, KT11 3LU. 01932 989649
Minkies Deli, Chamberlayne Rd London NW10 5RQ. 020 8969 2182
All Natural Health, 30 High St Sheringham, Norfolk NR26 8JR. 01263 825881
Back To The Garden, Letheringsett, Holt, Norfolk, NR25 7JJ. 01263 715996
Mmm.. 12/13 Grainger Arcade, Grainger Market, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE1 5QF 0191 222 1818
Do you know a good deli, farm shop or health food store that might like to work with us? Get in touch.
Red in the morning, shepherds’ ….TAKE COVER! Clearly something dreadful is brewing. Yet again Aurora, the Roman goddess of the dawn, has set the heavens alight.
Winter’s Catalan cocktail can always be relied upon to have a kick to it, with lashings of angostura, but as all seven billion of us know, the weather is going increasingly haywire.
From long before Christmas through to January 6, Dean Martin blared out of the village public address system. “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let it Snow!” I stood and listened next to the ludicrously early flowering pear tree, hat on to protect me from the beating sun, watching our happy host of sparrows hop through the burgeoning grass and boldly steal the chickens’ corn from under their beaks.
You don’t necessarily want to know this, but day after day – November, December and now into January – the peace, clarity and daytime warmth (circa 12 degrees) of the Priorat mountains continued to beguile like sirens. Is the mantic truth that this is the future? That between the rains in autumn and spring all will be serene?
No. The bite will surely come, late on and deep. Or the goaded planet will store its anger for another season.
Meanwhile we try not to worry about what is brewing. We try to appreciate the moment, these glorious days, the chance to hang winter washing on the line. After all, “Let It Snow” was written in Hollywood in July 1945, when I bet my bottom dollar flakes were few and far between.
Most evenings the black, random line of distant ink-black mountains is backed by the warm glow of sunset. But on January 5 it was an exceptional panorama, as the enchantment flared with celebration. From the far-flung clusters of lights marking the villages there rose fireworks – tiny, colourful flares above a beguiling community in miniature, heralding the arrival of the Three Kings bearing gifts for the Son of God and all the Catalan children.
There is one particular place, on the return journey from town, where this little world is laid out before me. I stopped the car and stared, waiting for another distant burst of happiness. I’d been on a fruitless shopping trip to town where most doors were locked, people were rushing to get ready and the main square was roped off with a 50 metre red carpet befitting the Oscars.
At New Year the children decided we should trek up the land in the dark, to turn off the torches and sit on the brow of the hill and listen to the distant village clock strike midnight. As we waited our eyes adjusted to the gloom and we wondered nervously what the plentiful wild boar were making of our unnatural presence in their nocturnal kingdom. None appeared and neither were there New Year explosions, just the tolling of the bell. Given the general tightening of belts, the villagers were obviously keeping their powder dry for January 5.
On the first day of the year we celebrated with a feast among friends at the always warm and welcoming home of Conchita and Mac.
So what will the new year hold? The fresh olive oil business bounds on – another website, run writer Judy Ridgway, has just posted our nut roast recipe – and the new year challenge is get the farm up and running, including pruning vines, as well as almond, fruit and olive trees.
Ella is working so very hard, juggling her five-languages baccalaureate (Spanish, Catalan, English, Greek, Latin, philosophy, geography, history, history of art and a thesis on fashion) while pulling together a portfolio to support art college applications. Regrettably an arts baccalaureate is not a sixth-form option in her small high school here in the mountains, so all her studies have been ex-curricular, something many arts-minded children may face in the UK if the mindless axing of arts education rolls on.
While I am on the subject, let me get this off my chest.
British art, music, theatre, film, books, radio and television are national treasures of invaluable worth that shine in the world and, for those in the corridors of power, bring vast returns to the Exchequer. Both Maggie and I despair that any Government should devalue this, or, indeed, deny that path of fulfilment to children. The planet needs far more arts, not less, for people to be more creative (and we don’t mean in the accounts departments of tax-dodging major corporations).
Meanwhile Joe is getting into his stride in his first year at high school, and growing an inch taller every week.
Ella and Joe will be 18 and 13 come June, an emotional thought deepened by the arrival of a gift, a large grass-weave basket, just like the one Joe slept in aged 4 weeks when we first came to Catalonia and saw Mother’s Garden.
Ella’s final exams will begin on her birthday, but she plans on celebrating in May when she and four friends and her brother will see One Direction in concert in Barcelona.
We will be there too, parked outside the Olympic basketball stadium in one enormous parental taxi rank, me nodding my head to the Rolling Stones on the car stereo, turning up the volume to drown out the screams while counting my blessings that somehow I managed to get the tickets.
How, heaven knows. I just kept frantically clicking the BUY button on the event website like a Wild West telegraph operator in a tumbleweed railway station who has a gun pointed at him by Clint Eastwood, until – Hallelujah – it worked. Life would not have been worth living had I failed.
As countless households all over the world know, bleakly or joyfully, One Direction concerts have been selling out in a blink, with online and shop vendors besieged by frantic teenagers and panicking parents. Now I notice some seats for the Barcelona gig are being offered for re-sale for a small fortune, as much as, well, tickets to see ageless (alright, he’s 69) living legend Mick Jagger strut his stuff while the indefinably cool guitarist Keith Richards sways precariously behind him. Heroes.
One Direction can’t be that good, surely?
Once upon a time, like many parents of older teenagers, I have been an expert on four colourful, fat friends with aerials on their heads and televisions in the tummies. Their incomprehensive but somehow catchy gibberish were then wallpapered over by the likes of “doggydoo” Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers greatest hits until I now find myself unwittingly humming 1D’s “Little Things” while walking the dogs. Not that I mind. Suffolk singer/songwriter Ed Sheeran, who penned it, is class.
It is, give or take a sunrise or two, a dozen years since we rolled up here with our Norfolk bandwagon, chattels, dogs and dreams. We staked out this Latin soil as an outpost of the good county, promising to keep close and tell all; to share it.
Incredulity at the rush of time is answered by the grey-gilled man in the mirror, now 54 years of age. I have spent nearly a quarter of my life here and have tentatively begun the process of growing old. I need to accept that. Just beginning, I rush to add, but I – we – also need to recognise that the time has arrived to ease off the throttle; somehow.
Running the holiday cottage and, hence, having people on the farm for nine months of the year while also farming, writing and trying to grow the olive oil business is now too much.
So we are talking to villagers and friends to see who might like to share the land. There is talk of food cooperative members growing crops here. We want to focus more on the olive oil and the writing, so this may be our last season with the cottage. We shall see.
In truth, I don’t really know how old I am. My head says go for it until my body argues back two days later. Then I read in London Sunday supplements left by visitors and penned by deluded writers of roughly my age that where forty was once the new thirty, fifty is now the new forty. ER…no. Admit it.
PS: Cancel your flights. I wrote the above a few days ago. This morning it is tipping it down, blowing a gale and there is now on top of the mountain. Never take a god’s name in vain….
STOP PRESS 8 December, 2012:
The freshest possible extra virgin olive oil is on its way to England from Mother’s Garden – taste the difference.
From tree to you.
Our annual NEW HARVEST UNFILTERED olive oil shipment has now landed in England for Christmas feasts – and 90 per cent has already been sold!
Every year demand for the freshest, finest olive oil grows as, thankfully, more and more people appreciate that freshness is as equally important as provenance and a guarantee that the olive oil is 100 per cent extra virgin olive oil. That is why we always tell you where and when the olives were pressed and bottled.
If you have ordered this potent new harvest unfiltered oil, alive with fruit particles, it should be enjoyed within six months maximum.
But if you missed out, don’t worry, we are taking orders for a January shipment so get in touch (click here). This will be filtered new harvest olive oil that will be packed with flavour and goodness, as always from the groves that won the highest award on the 2011 Great Taste Awards – 3 gold stars. Get in touch.
And we can announce today that Mother’s Garden olive oil is now available in Canada.
We are working with Dos Cielos in Toronto where Maggie was born – a fledgingly business run by a family who have stayed at Mother’s Garden. As with our UK supplies there is a choice of larger containers (5litres) and 500ml glass bottles. If you are in Canada or America and are interested to learn more please drop us a line and we will put you in touch.
The olive harvest here on the farm has been early and a little disheartening. A very localised April storm crashed in from the west and pummelled the olive flowers, robbing us of all but a few precious fruits on our trees. Other growers have had better fortune – groves just half a mile apart tell different stories – and the cooperative farmers we work with have more than enough wonderful fruit for our customers, thank goodness.We gathered what we could, then shared in the harvest at our neighbours Marta and Benet, taking with us friends from Norfolk, Suffolk and Essex, all members of the Prendergast clan.
As we savoured the sight of the youngest picker, toddler Mina, sitting with legs splayed on the nets, it was easy for the eye to drift to the autumn colours of the adjoining vineyard. The hues this year have been more warming than ever and the pastel days refused to yield.
More and more people are taking a fresh look at olive oil!With the help of Tina from Priorat Provenance in Yorkshire, and Tamsin and Andy from Offshoot in Cornwall, we built on our top 3 Gold Stars Great Taste Award by linking up with a host of leading delis and chefs from all over the United Kingdom who want bulk fresh olive oil.As the orders come in we will keep you posted on where you can buy our arbequina oil and we will continue to add to our list of top chefs for whom it is an essential ingredient.
Today we can announce our latest customer is Alex Rushmer, runner up in Masterchef 2010. His restaurant is the hugely popular Hole In The Wall at Little Wilbraham between Cambridge and Newmarket – see www.justcookit.co.uk.
Are you a chef or deli looking for something different, something wonderful for your customers? Just drop us a line and we will explain how you can get the very best for as little as £7 a litre.
It is days like these that I file in my storehouse of priceless joy.
We drifted through the olive trees, young and not so young, dipping our shoulders into the heat of the late-day sun, our feet labouring across the tilled, dry earth, our shadows moving along the ancient terrace wall as shadows have done for centuries.
They had come at half past six on the dot as asked, in a convoy of little cars and on a tractor of appropriate colours (green and yellow), snaking the mile along the dusty track from their homes to a grove with views to eternity.
The village cooperative members were at ease in familiar company, but with the soft voices of uncertainty as I stepped forward to address them.
Great news is usually the easiest to impart, but I was an Englishman without the buoyancy of a prepared speech, wading into the rip tide of Catalan grammar. Impart it I did, though, adequately it seemed, for smiling couples embraced and pulled their children to them, and ripples of happiness rolled through the grove.
And here they are, the Priorat farming families of Mother’s Garden Fresh Extra Virgin Olive Oil, the faces behind the wonderful fresh juice from the wisest of fruits that judges in the 2011 Great Taste Awards described as “absolutely stunning”.
How good to know, how wonderful to be just one of two olive oils on sale in the UK to get 3 Gold Stars in these coveted awards – and how important as we continue to spread the Mother’s Garden olive oil message of freshness, provenance, flavour and goodness.
Ella took a multitude of photographs for you as we raised glasses of gold and toasted the moment, while laughing children ducked and dived and tucked into bread and olive oil. Maggie and I chatted with proud president Manel and many more, unable to gauge the distance travelled since we left England in January 2001.
It was, I reflected as everyone meandered back to their cars and to the steady rhythm of their rural lives, a deliciously gentle, community triumph of cooperation, pride, and ancient wisdom.
When we first walked the boundary of our future home in 2000 and looked at the myriad of Mediterranean challenges, we realised our first learning curve would be an olive harvest. Little did we know, though, how important the fruit would become.
In truth we rapidly became neurotically obsessed with the vines, thinking these would yield a greater harvest, but you live and learn.
Olive oil like wine is at the heart of life here (arbequina olive oil to be precise) and in those first years we grew to love the sharing of November harvests with neighbours, the moment of pressing and bringing home enough fresh juice to last the year; of the gold/green goodness in the pourer that sits in the middle of the kitchen table – gold and green for the colour of the fresh oil can magically change with the light. Friends from England tasted it, saying they could not believe the difference, the beautiful scent and the rich flavour. They wanted it at the heart of their diet too, so a fledgling business that was never planned took wing.
Our county of the Priorat is tiny – 192 square miles compared to Norfolk’s 2000 – with scattered clusters of houses huddled around churches on unforgiving terrain of slate and soil. Lanes snake through the valleys linking the 22 villages and one small town, Falset, all dominated by the Monstant ridge to the north and the Mola and Santa Marina mountains to the south.
It is an undulating tapestry of vines, olives,.almonds, hazels and swathes of forest, and is world-renowned for wine production with two denominations, the DOQ Priorat and DO Montsant.
Private investors have spent countless millions in recent years developing new vineyards and building grand cellars, but the olive groves mostly remain the domain of the small village farmers and their cooperatives; people like Manel and the close knit community of El Masroig with whom we work.
The cooperatives make outstanding wine too. During our decade here we have seen them face up to the modern world and, like Spain generally, begin to counter the marketing dominance of Italy.
There is a way to go, but life is coming back to the villages.
Among Ella’s photographs are some of the young people that run the mill – Carles, Rafel and the team who are striving to put the village and their produce on the international map.
Here the farming has changed little since the cooperative was formed in 1917, with each family owning one or more of the plots that ring the village, while the dramatic, rocky terrain with its narrow terraces means it will undoubtedly stay that way.
Spain is by far the world’s largest producer of olive oil, with groves covering an area the size of Norfolk, Suffolk, Cambridgeshire and most of Lincolnshire. On the narrow Priorat mountain terraces farmers cultivate the small and hardy arbequina olive trees alongside their almond trees and vines, in contrast to the different beauty and wonder of the rolling estates in other parts of this country, where other important varieties are also grown, notably Picual, Hojiblanca, and Manzanilla.
The majority of villagers here are senior, it has to be said, but some young people are returning to the land with its toil and risk. It is, indeed, arduous, dangerous work through fiery summers and bitter winters. Earlier this month a young man from the village was killed when his tractor rolled, a tragedy that is not uncommon on this extreme landscape.
Beyond our wish to widened appreciation of fresh arbequina olive oil and to support our neighbours, we believe firmly that the world still has a great deal to learn about this ancient food that’s credited continuously with health values, the most recent being a French study into the reduced risk of stroke.
It is better understood that the Mediterranean diet is associated with a lower risk of dying from cardiovascular disease. Is this because, by definition, if you consume a significant amount of olive oil then you are eating a healthier diet in general? Because of the cost of olive oil are all regular consumers participating in studies likely to be able to afford a better diet in general?
If, beyond the wonderful flavour of fresh olive oil, we are going to clearly define the tremendous goodness of simple olive juice then we all need to push for more and more research. That is one of our aims, in tune with spreading the understanding that it is simply a juice, and that knowing when it was pressed is as important as knowing where and with what care.
Meanwhile we offer the story, the faces and the best olive oil, all of which I will be more than happy to talk about when we are back in September to be part of the Speciality Food Fair at Olympia on September 4,5 and 6. If you are a chef or deli/farm shop owner and plan to attend, come and see us on stand 2.
Our fresh olive oil is one of Delia’s favourite ingredients – and her popular website has featured Mother’s Garden and our efforts to get everyone to take a fresh look at this wonderful food.
See – http://www.deliaonline.com/news-and-features/mothers-garden-olive-oil.html
Want some too?
Just drop us a line – click here.