Rockface

A routine has developed. The olive trees aren't quite ready to be harvested so the main task is to feed them. They like goat manure. A huge pile of which has been dumped on one of the terraces. So, armed with shovels, buckets and a wheelbarrow, the wwoofers get stuck in.

The manure has been sitting in the sun so long that it has mostly degraded to a fine brown powder. It gets up your nose and sticks to your sweaty skin. Before you know it flies are everywhere and you've turned into a giant walking turd. If you want to work on an organic farm, be prepared to get your hands (and everything else) filthy.

Julius with a fresh delivery.

In the evening, I had my first experience driving on the right side of the road. It was a good challenge: navigating a small van past a truck on a narrow winding mountain track. With no fence before the sheer drop. And a couple of Swedish rock climbers in the back quick-firing me questions about the Irish economy. No bother!

Spending so much time on a remote farm can feel isolating, especially for habitual urbanites. So it was refreshing to get out for a beer that night, even if it was just to the village. We were a gaggle of wwoofers and climbers, exchanging opinions about our various home countries and occupations.

Everyone seemed tired as, before long, conversation was replaced by The Angry Game. Fellow wwoofer Julius, from Germany, initiated this ridiculous entertainment: two people lock eye contact with angry expressions - you laugh you lose. The champion was probably Arvidh from Sweden whose face was simply closed, devoid of weakness, much like the cold, impenetrable rock he spends so many hours scaling.