Here's a link to the website so you can see what the place is all about...
My first morning at Garp takes a leisurely start. Deon makes chy with root ginger – perfect morning drink to wash away any ill effects of lastnights wine. After breakfast George arrives on the quad-bike - he is one of the guys who works for Murat (the owner of Garp). George has a cheery persona and we enjoy trading language lessons at every possible occasion. After breakfast we take a short trip to the area of the valley littered with olive trees. With giant combs and sticks we pilfer the bitter fruits from their leafy home. The work is fun and not particularly strenuous. The responsibility of musical accompaniment falls at George's feet and he sings, hums, and whistles as we work. Once the tree is empty we bunch up the cloth (that covered the ground to catch the olives) and pour the goods into a sack. The process is repeated until the yield reaches 10-15 kilos - typically this is between one and three trees. With sufficient supply for a days olive pressing we go to Babakale. In the day light I can see that the tiny track is just wide enough for a quad-bike, and the cliff drops away quite dramatically to the waves below.
Self Employed – for various reasons, chiefly to avoid being told what to do.
Travelling predominately solo – Allowing me the freedom to do things my way.
As I type this I consider deleting much of the above, to save you from my sulking. But sod it! My Blog, my way! : )
You gather I didn't learn as much about sustainable agriculture (and the like) as I expected from my first Wwoofing experience. But it was far from all doom and gloom. And I'm very grateful for the experience, if for no other reason than it allowed me time to think.
Lunchtimes are always a big event during my working day. Ramazan (the man in charge while Murat is away) is an incredible cook. Each lunchtime, using only a single gas burner, he prepares the most wonderful feast. Fish caught the very same day, fried up with peppers, tomatoes, herbs and spices. Fresh bread and raw onion make up the side dishes side dishes. We all sit around a plastic patio table and eat from one giant pan. Immediately my sulks and blisters are forgotten. I earn the nickname “dustbin”. All leftover bread and food is pushed to my end of the table – one of the advantages that comes with having the appetite of the touring cyclist. Often lunch is concluded with several glasses of chy and a rest.