The olive tree

I’ve always wanted an olive tree.

It’s strange, when I lived all those years in the warmth of the South of France where an olive tree would have been in its natural environment, I didn’t have one.

Now I live in the cold, wet, windswept expanses of 57°North I have at one at last.

It will live indoors. It has to, really, although it might survive in the polycrub. I suspect it will never fruit in this climate, but I don’t care. It’s just a beautiful thing.

She (do trees have gender, I wonder? If so, this is a SHE) is a beauty, with an old, gnarled trunk, deeply fissured and twisted through years of living in a Spanish olive grove. I wonder about her age.

She arrived on a lorry this afternoon, deceptively heavy even without the pot. Husband and friend Andy manhandled her slowly indoors, and put her into position. Thank goodness for strapping friends and neighbours and I sincerely hope that I haven’t done husband’s back any serious injury.

I’ve chosen a spot with good light from all around due to the position of the big windows. I’ll have to mist her foliage regularly and keep her well watered, and do my best to keep the cats off her..

The cats of course love their new cat toy. A scratching post and deluxe cat loo all in one! Within minutes both had scaled her trunk and were balanced at the top in her spindly crown looking triumphant.

The one in the pic is Freya, of course 😂.

Husband has rigged up a temporary cardboard cover to protect her until we can gather enough beach stones to cover the soil tomorrow. Not pretty, but essential.

I’ll have to give her a name.