The King and Us

Olive harvest is special at the best of times, but suddenly there he was, looking remarkably lithe for a 75-year-old icon. Well, It's not every day Elvis, resplendent in bell-bottoms, jewelled white jumpsuit and shades, and in need of a shave, saunters up the track to join you for some timeless labour of love in the groves.

We'd put the word out that we needed all the help we could get, and the King duly obliged, swelling the ranks of a truly international Mother's Garden olive picking team who reaped more than 600 kilos before nightfall, a farm record. And for good measure he brought his Yorkshire wife Mandy and their five-year-old daughter Meritxell to enjoy the fun.

Friend Rob, who runs a downhill cycling tour company out of the Costa Dorada resort of Salou, is a man of many talents, not least being a ski-instructor and an Elvis impersonator. We have happily allowed him and his downhill cycling clients to make our meadow a pit-stop, and in exchange he offered to bring his family to pick olives. They got stuck into the harvest ritual of spreading nets, raking, talking and filling sacks, alongside French Canadians, Catalans, Australians, Nepalese, Swiss and English volunteers.

Maggie served up lunch for 15 between the bee-buzz of the flowering medlar tree and the rapidly fading glory of the fig, then we hauled ourselves back to the trees until poor light stopped play.

Mother's Garden has Forth Bridge qualities and we increasingly need the energy and spirit of youth to keep on top of it. We have had a number of highly effective teenage and twentysomething helpers over the years, but only ever via word of mouth; sporadic and always in response to requests, not at our greatest times of need necessarily.

That has changed significantly this autumn. As I mentioned last month, Pauline, a friend with an olive farm in Italy (and, spookily, also a former Bradford resident), emailed saying she had two young Australians who were looking for somewhere to stay and help in Catalonia. Jonathan and Deanna from Melbourne arrived in October and sensitively and energetically wove themselves into the Mother's Garden way of life, digging over the vegetable patch, cleaning around the olive trees, wooding and caring for the animals.

Before heading off to Argentina, they suggested we sign up for HelpX, a website that puts smallholders and globe-trotting volunteers in touch. Within hours of registering, the offers of support started rolling in, mostly from Antipodeans. Steve and Sophie from Brisbane were here throughout the olive harvest, their reward being a trip to the mill, for chocolate drink, cakes and the privilege of guzzling olive oil within the hour of it being pressed – green and as alive as grass kissed by the dew.

Wellies are the order of the early day – wetness weighs everything until nearly 11am and winter draws near. The colours and scent of autumn and the jewels of moisture on the spider webs load the worth of the first rays that brim the mountain range. And still no foals. We are due to leave for England, including Scarborough and York and things are complicated enough without the certainty of knowing that the population of the corral will not swell to four while we are away. Friend Annie is a horsewoman, but it is a lot to ask. Maybe Steve and Sophie will stay on to lend a hand with all the other chores. Like bird scaring. I haven't mentioned it to them yet, but the responsibilities will include heron watch. A wise grey one keeps swooping in to feast on our goldfish in the reservoir, merely doing circuits of the valley every time I burst out of the back door flailing my arms and trying to convey in Anglo Saxon that I'd rather it made itself absent, permanently.

We bid farewell to Clarence Kailin last month, 61 years after he was critically wounded close to Mother's Garden fighting in the International Brigade against Franco and fascism. Some lives read like screenplays. Perhaps someone should make a film about him. This American-born son of Russian Jewish immigrants devoted his whole life to social justice, volunteering in 1937 to fight for Spain's democracy. Clarence travelled here with his childhood friend, a mathematics student called John Cookson who was killed in September 1938 and buried in this valley a few hundred metres from our farm.

Clarence was injured, too, and was repatriated to his home in Madison, Wisconsin where for the rest of his life he campaigned tirelessly in post-war America for equality, human rights and free health care for all. When I met him, he was 93 and his strength of character still shone out. Amid the war reminiscing, there were smiles – he was once disciplined for attempting to man a frontline trench wearing nothing but his underwear and shoes, saying it was too hot for trousers.

Just before his death, Clarence was granted dual Spanish citizenship in recognition of his service. He'd fought in the defence of Madrid to the last stand at the River Ebro. He made it clear at Cookson's graveside that he wanted to be buried with his friend. So the family brought his ashes 4,500 miles to Marca, our village, where locals had planted an olive tree in his memory and placed a bench facing the memorial that honours the International Brigade.It was a poignant break from the rhythm of the farm and preparations for our drive back to England in a hire van loaded to the gunnels with olive oil, nuts, embroidered Mother's Garden aprons, books and treats for family and friends. When you read this, all four of us will be on our way and not due back Mother's Garden for a fortnight.

We really hope we to see some of you on Monday at the Blake Head Bookshop in Micklegate, York, where, at 6.30pm I will be making a right pudding of myself.

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