It’s funny—the thing I love most about our very old (very expensive) house isn’t even the house itself.
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the history, the stone walls, the quirks left behind by generations of farmers. I could wax poetic about all of that.
But I won’t.
Because the first time you taste olive oil made from trees right outside your door? Everything else fades. Scrambled eggs? Transcendent. A hunk of bread dipped in the golden-green liquid? A spiritual experience.
I now look forward to the olive harvest with the same giddy anticipation I once reserved for summer holidays, Christmas as a kid, or the thrill of a teenage crush.
Boring? Maybe.
Addictive? Absolutely.
How I Fell for Homegrown Olive Oil
Back in my early twenties, I was big into WWOOFing—no, not barking like a dog. WWOOF stands for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. Basically, you work on a farm in exchange for food and a place to sleep.
One stint near Tarragona changed everything.
One day, a delivery arrived—bottles of olive oil, fresh from our own trees. Sure, I knew where olive oil came from, but seeing those same trees outside, watching an old farmer unload the bottles with quiet pride? Magic.
The rest of that farm? A disaster.
The soil was rock-hard, the owner was a militant vegan and raw fooder, and the meals were so dismal we eventually caved in. We piled into his beat-up van and made a desperate supply run into town. The whole way there, he smacked the steering wheel, singing, “Pan con aceite! Pan con aceite!”—Bread and oil! Bread and oil!
Back at the farm, we dunked fresh bread into a mix of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and… perfection. Right then, I decided: one day, I’d have my own olive trees.
My own oil.
My own little slice of food heaven.
Some people dream of Ferraris. Others want beachfront villas. Ask most people about the house of their dreams and they’ll tell you about the number of rooms, the land, the luxury.
Me?
Give me an overgrown garden, food from my own hands, and good people to share it with.
That’s my version of wealth.
Buying a Masia with Olive Groves
When JC and I moved back to Spain, I had exactly one non-negotiable: olive trees.
The problem? Finding a place that had them and ticked all of JC’s practical boxes. Too remote? Too expensive? Legally questionable? (Spain loves a bit of real estate red tape.)
We searched for months.
Worked with Cottage Properties, a real estate agency specializing in masias in Catalonia. Scoured forums for fixer-uppers. There were places with full-blown olive farms—working presses, wheat fields, even vineyards.
Way out of budget. Obviously.
So we compromised. Found a place that needed work. A lot of work. More than we expected, honestly. My father-in-law pitched in. We poured ourselves into it. It drained our energy, our time, our savings.
Do I regret it?
Sometimes, yeah. When the bills pile up. When yet another thing needs fixing. When I have to accept imperfection.
But then, I step outside. I see those olive trees, growing just as they have for decades—centuries, even. I taste the oil, our oil, and I know.
This?
This was worth it.
Because my kids won’t just know where olive oil comes from. They’ll know how it should taste. How it’s made. Why it matters.
And if they grow up believing that good food, made with care, is one of the best things in life?
Then we did something right.