Jeremy Clarke Jeremy Clarke

I was the only Trump supporter among the olive-pickers

Warned in French that I was for the Donald, the Armenian stepped closer to scrutinise me

[Photo: nito100]

We bums find ourselves sought after at this time of year to lend a hand with the olive harvest. So this week I’ve been standing on a tarpaulin in a sunny field combing olives off olive branches. It’s a good year for olives. The trees are laden and the work is pleasantly monotonous. The minimal level of thought needed to accomplish the task shuts down the internal Red Army choir of negative thoughts that normally drowns out the competition, offering the mind a holiday. In the mornings we combed to the sound of birds twittering in the trees; after lunch to Fip music radio, state-financed, eclectic. On Thursday the smoky-voiced French woman DJ gave a big shout-out to all you olive pickers out there.

On the far side of the field, a local artist, lately gone figurative, was out picking his olives also. At close of play he wandered over to exchange group-think sentiments about the close-run US election. The postal votes were still being counted in Pennsylvania and Georgia, he said. However Biden was edging slightly ahead, he said, sounding relieved but still anxious. He was Armenian. Warned in French that I was for Trump, he stepped closer to scrutinise me as something that was unique in his experience. ‘So. You are for Trump?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And you? Of the liberal elite?’ I said. ‘Yes,’ he said proudly.

By Friday we had 250 kilos ready to go to the olive mill for pressing. As we swung the crates into the back of the car, my romantic vision was of a small blinded donkey harnessed to a primitive system of granite millstones, plodding round and round. And of ragged, tree-worshipping Provençal peasants down from the hills in holiday mood and squabbling over homeopathic amounts of product.

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