After the Olive Harvest

By Birte Leseberg

This is a book written by a woman, for a woman. If you long to switch off from your everyday life but just can’t find the time, then this Greek love story may help you. “After the Olive Harvest” is a story of the human condition; of love, separation, reunion, and conflict. It will remind you to live life to the full because you never know what’s waiting around the corner – but you may find a more personal message in this story - hear the three voices and listen closely to your own…  
“After the Olive Harvest” is a powerful read, charged with fiery imagery and symbolism that build towards a dramatic and unexpected climax – one likely to move even the toughest of souls. Take it with you on holiday, or even your daily commute, and allow it to transport you to another world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Feb 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781789010398

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After the Olive Harvest

Birte Leseberg

Copyright © 2018 Birte Leseberg

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781789010398

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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Michael, Traute, Petra and Katja

Cabin crew, please take your seats for landing. The anticipation of experiencing something new started gurgling in the confines of your stomach and the accompanying excitement made your heart flutter. You craned your neck over the passenger seated next to the window to catch a glimpse of the longed-for blue sky and, below the wing, of the sun’s rays reflecting on the surface of the Ionian Sea. The water in its myriad shades of blue, from turquoise to azure, exuded purity and magic.

This is going to be my best holiday ever, you had said to yourself, and to be able to maximise every opportunity to communicate with the natives, you had not let the Greek/English phrase book out of your sight for the last two weeks. You had even made a stab at learning the Greek alphabet, not least because you thought you might come across places where you were not automatically provided with an English translation. You wanted to explore Petilouda and its surroundings, the mountains dotted with villages less frequented by tourists, to go into a basic, local restaurant and to be invited into the kitchen to choose your meal.

As you teetered down the metal steps onto Greek land, the heat hugged you like an old friend you had not seen for a while, and the smell of kerosene mixed with the balmy warmth of the atmosphere assured you that you had arrived. The alluring sweet smell of baklava, coffee and musky perfume made you quicken your pace to the baggage reclaim. Standing at the belt, you hoped that your case would be the first to emerge, so you could get out as quickly as possible into the heat, and onwards to Petilouda.

Wednesday

The vast expanse of motionless sea, barely distinguishable from the faintly striated 9 p.m. sky, blue-grey working up to pink, lit by an emerging full moon. In the distance ahead of the restaurant terrace at Atteni, the vague mound of Lefkada, merging with the sea and sky as minute by minute it loses its form. Yesterday it stood there in front of me, almost tangible. The ever-changing scenery. But tonight everything seems to be standing still in anticipation ... of what? Only the moon looms large, a jaded yellow, wearing the faintly optimistic smile of the Greeks themselves and making the Ionian Sea appear even stiller. As dusk approached, the scintillating shade of the sea receded, the pink strata moved up another layer leaving behind a paler shade of grey-blue. Things can change so quickly yet so seemingly motionlessly at the same time. In front of the sea, the green and rugged mountain tops, lush yet worn. To the left, three whitish rooftops form an isosceles triangle, then nearer to the restaurant the dense ancient olive trees, a lucrative legacy from the Venetians, thick and green, pregnant with fruit, unwavering, each of the 300-year old trees sticking together in their collective mass. In between and intermittently, a tall black cypress protrudes in all its manliness, dominating the olive groves only in height.

As the dog barked, Lefkada disappeared; the violet strata are no more; now the darker grey of the sea separates itself from the sky but only in the form of a fragile demarcation. Finite, infinite, dark, light; essentially a dichotomy but also a synthesis, redolent of the village inhabitants themselves: Living each day to the full, working arduously to build a material existence but making time to socialise; on the surface they are light-hearted people but you can sense an underlying tension and preoccupation.

The full moon hides, but now there shines bright a single, solitary star and down below, the lights of Petilouda bay reflect onto the sea, itself virtually motionless. In front of the lit bars and houses, the black silhouette of the coastline, dark and almost threatening. The dog barks again and the residue of the day’s heat envelopes me as I inhale consciously, the salty-sweet smell of the sea and the resin of the cypresses. You could forget where you came from. Papers are available but the inclination to read them disappeared from the moment I arrived on Greek soil. The FT and The Economist will return to England, or not, but at least unread, ignored. Live each moment to the full; it might be the last time for another year. This place attracts you like a magnet. Unlike poles attract... but are we that far apart in the first place?

The left-hand corner of the skyline is becoming elongated, stretching towards the right, and behind it appears a faint