What to say . . .

I don't know, I re-wrote this post three times and it all sounded wrong, so I took the dogs for a walk in the hills and spent an hour listening to the wind in the poplar trees and watching the last rays of sun illuminating the few remaining autumn leaves.

             The olive tree - symbol of peace I believe; something the world is in need of . . .

Building No 45

A toilet . . . in an olive grove. I assume it's a loo, or perhaps a slim potting shed, or just a small human-sized space for standing and contemplating life in.

The elegant Whatever It Is stands in a bountiful-looking 'potager' (veg patch) and olive field just outside a village near us. I've often driven past the land and wondered who owns and looks after it so methodically.
This time I stopped and walked the dogs up the road.
On returning, I saw the owners: two rotund, elderly men; buckets suspended from their shoulders, each holding a small, yellow plastic rake; their voices somewhat raised. Suddenly I had the feeling that I had stumbled into a chapter of Alice in Wonderland - Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee arguing over whose rake is the most attractive . . .
They proceeded to the first olive tree and stroked the laden branches with the rakes, thus dislodging the crop into the buckets. Brilliant notion: I might try it on the straggly trees that line the hillside next to our garden . . . or, probably not, as I still haven't found out how you prepare olives to make them remotely edible.
I said hello, and discovered that the olives would be destined for oil production. I wanted to ask them why they appeared to have part of a train sitting on top of another building near the toilet, but they were not effusive beyond 'Bonjour' and 'yes - oil production', so I did a sneaky bit of vegetable- reportage photography, noted the beauty of their cabbages and crumbly loamy soil, and went home to think about constructing a dry-earth loo in the garden.