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Author: admin, 02.05.2014. Category: Vegetable Garden

April 26, 2014 by Addicted to Saving Leave a Comment This post may contain a link to an affiliate. Filed Under: Coupons, Restaurants Subscribe to daily email updates and be entered for a chance to win $50 cash! Sign up for the Newsletter to receive all the hottest deals and coupons straight to your inbox daily!
My name is Liza and I began my money-saving journey in the Spring of 2009 as a way to stretch a limited household income.
Olive Garden is offering a $5.99 lunch of UNLIMITED soup, salad and breadsticks in a lunch combo Tuesdays through Sundays until 4 pm.
Join hundreds of other subscribers and stay up to date on the latest deals and discounts in D.C.
Washington DC on the Cheap is a member of Living on the Cheap, a network of a network of websites published by frugalistas, journalists and consumer advocates.
Find practical advice on saving money on groceries, travel and shopping, plus tips from our experts on how to live the good life for less at Living on the Cheap. Every day, you'll receive one email listing all the deals, discounts and free events published in the last 24 hours at Washington DC on the Cheap. Our May shipment is in England, ready for distribution next week – world-class, award-winning arbequina extra virgin olive oil from our valley, appreciated by more and more people.
Remember, too, that if you just want to try a 500ml bottle we have deli and farm shop outlets in Norfolk, Kent, Hampshire, Staffordshire, Derbyshire and Devon.
The cottage is booked now through to the end of September, but we would be delighted to welcome you if you want to consider an autumn break.
Keep well, and if you want to join the growing number of customers appreciating our fresh EV olive oil please GET IN TOUCH. We have fresh supply in the UK now of our award-winning latest harvest extra virgin olive oil for immediate delivery. Simply go to our Mother’s Garden online shop to order or get in touch if you have any questions. Our premium fresh arbequina olive oil comes from just one village mill and has won the highest awards. People have constantly asked how they can get to see the two insights, which until now has not been possible. Back in 2000 we volunteered to be the first family to be featured on the first series of No Going Back just because we wanted a record of our adventure, for our children and grandchildren, and for our families and friends to have a greater understanding of why we were doing this.
But that night, with our young children tucked up in bed, we sat in our Catalan farmhouse beside the open fire, talking, wondering …then the phone began to ring and ring.
More than 4 million UK families tuned in to watch, and since then the documentaries have been screened around the world, spawning countless other programmes and bringing a host of wonderful people to stay on the farm. So here it is, the beginning of the Mother’s Garden story, our search for a different way of living, that has led to our our vital extra virgin olive oil business, three books, screenplays, holiday cottage visitors from all corners of the globe. Please share with anyone who is interested in such life stories, in the finest olive oil or who may like to visit Mother’s Garden. With 15,000 nuclear warheads pointed in all directions (labelled deterrents to the owners but weapons of mass destruction when wielded by others) and an annual arms trade turnover of more than ?50billion we desperately need to talk. Further, every human being should have access to the UN, whether to be heard, to offer support or receive relief, and its significance and purpose should be transparent and properly covered by the world media.
I wave them off and realise I still have in my hand the pomegranate I scrumped from our neighbours’ loaded tree while feeding their chickens for them when they were away. A burst from the mass choir of charming gold finches in the pine tops leads me back toward the water where a brimstone butterfly curtsies like a swallow to drink on the wing. I was barred from spinning through the vineyards during harvest this year (by doctors and the boss, on account of my ongoing recovery), so instead of secateurs I wielded my camera and recorded Maggie and friends at labour.
Last week Maggie and I sat in Joe’s classroom at the high school, trying to make sense of the usual cacophony of Catalan at an evening parents’ meeting. Then there they were, rooting in a lane-side ditch on the fringe of the soft yellow glow of the town lights, ten feet from the door of the sleeping police station.
Four of the infants continued to plough up the dead leaves, but the smallest boar stopped hunting for worms and nuts and fixed us with an inquisitive, trusting stare, oblivious to the madness and danger of our species, the self-appointed lords of all. The pig – Xanxa (Chancha) – stopped chewing and I could swear her head was faintly moving with the pendulum, further proof positive of salient thoughts. Xanxa, of the spotted variety, bunks down in a pen the size of a tennis court with two floppy-eared goats, four noisy sheep and a pocket-rocket stallion pony. Blasts of rain have greened up the pear tree terrace where La Petita is tethered just out of reach of the fruit. On the meadow of a morning, crowding around our lone cherry tree we have an abundance of the tender blue of chicory, while at the top of the land there are mesmerising globe thistles, throbbing with blue violet light. I swim sedately in circles in the reservoir, like a gentleman of leisure in a Turkish bath nervous about his toupee, my alarmingly wafer frame out of sight to all but the goldfish, frogs and water boatmen. The Moon Daisy film project is about to do the rounds of casting agents, directors etc in America, so channel all positive vibes in that general direction please. I am woken most days by a golden oriole leading the first light chorus from the bare, dead crown of the oldest fig tree, before a cacophony of spotless starlings swoops in. Our terriers, Tilly and Ted, lay flaked on the red dust beneath this canopy of chaos, too hot to be bothered, unless a cat or a fat toad dares enter their soporific eye-level radar. Armies of ants toil endlessly, carving highways through broken ground littered with felled forests of dead grass.
And so our little, bio-diverse world turns clockwise, positively, naturally, at an almost manageable rate, counter to the grim, nauseating flip-flop and mad spin of negative news, dominated by the alarmingly primitive obsessions of some within a single species. So back to the books I go, and to the extraordinary lives of exceptional authors – Hans Fallada, Robert Tressell, Irene Nemirovsky, and Laurie Lee being my current deep pools for thought. The emperor edged closer, iridescent sapphire with gold in his jewelled stare, his four wings a haze.
I sit or stand still more now than I have ever done, and life comes to me; returning to my body in tiny measures every day.
Fledgling swallows from nests glued to rafters in the barn chatter on the sundial during flying practice.
Nearer still to the red earth where our chickens bathe in the dust, the hefty carpenter bees, their hum an octave lower than the other pollinators, prefer the sturdy bloom storks of the dramatic, glossy, dark green and broad-leaf (with a spike at the end) acanthus, or bear’s breeches, a remarkable plant rooted in herbal medicine and, bizarrely, classical and Renaissance architecture and art.


Native to the Mediterranean region but now found worldwide, the leaf motif of this plant was carved into the tops of Corinthian columns from the 5th century BC, something copied by later architects and sculptors, also being used in wood carving and in friezes. To the east and south of our weather-beaten, wide front door, shading the dog kennel and hammock are fig boughs that bow to the ground with the weight of teardrop fruit, still deceptively green.
If we cannot sleep in the afternoon, then we will read or talk some more about the world in flux, the portents of a brewing El Nino in the warming Pacific, or maybe the recent prognosis that we could be on the verge of a mini ice age, but one that will not deflect the consequences of certain global warming. I’m sure that if the compulsion to clamour is not yet there, disquiet is of pandemic proportions, surely. This sequel to the best-selling NO GOING BACK, brings the Mother’s Garden story up to date – another honest and funny serving of Mediterranean home truths from the family home in The Priorat mountains of southern Catalonia.
More than 50,000 copies of NO GOING BACK, available in four languages, have been sold, and millions of people around the globe followed the family’s living the dream story on two No Going Back television documentaries. We humbly suggest that those of you with a Kindle might like to read it, and we ask everyone to pass the word and the link so this news reaches as many people as possible. Many dream of a different way of life, and here is a truthful, emotional and comical account of one family who did it.
Custom design by Pixel Me DesignsPlease check out our Privacy Policy and our Disclosure Policy. We are here, working on the olive trees and in the mill, so you can be sure of the quality and freshness. Channel 4 has now made available online the NO GOING BACK documentaries, starting with our journey here 15 years ago.
Our hammock-supporting nispero tree is coming into flower while the countless stalks of St John’s wort, that medicinal herb or noxious and invasive weed (depending on your leaning), still flames at the water’s edge and along banks and verges. The world is crying out for the UN to show unity of peaceful purpose far and beyond nationalistic interests.
Far more pressure has to be put on all our leaders to never act unilaterally but to work tirelessly within the UN for peaceful binding solutions, for this world council to be the catalyst for compassion, consideration and action to help those in need, which is, ultimately, the most courageous, lasting and effective way to break the cycle of hatred and revenge. Nearby a hairy white ermine moth caterpillar looking like a dirty bottle brush is moving apace towards the carcase of a squidged fig. It was the same old cheek-blowing challenge and we tootled home into the night comparing mental notes. Oh alright, it didn’t, but when whistled the hefty creature skipped daintily out of the almond grove, before hoofing it across the stable yard to bound up some railway-sleeper steps and join us on the play area terrace. But for great lumps of time she is free as a wild hog, a good natured and heavily petted favourite at a farm school run by our old friends Carme and Joan.
Blue-black fledged swallows twitch their tails on the sundial as fearless young, raised in the barn, unreasonably expect their parents to still feed them. The strict orders are still in force, but trying to be inactive when there is so much to be done is torture. Ideally, we need a great actress of circa 50+ to read the script and want to do it, it offering, after all, the phenomenal role of key protagonist Jess Healey. Coleridge beckoned the other day (I had been learning about his habit of climbing mountains and getting into tight spots) so took one of his tome’s off the dangerously shallow shelves (another Kirby cock-up) that scale the wall beside my bed.
God may well move in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform, but I’m after Cowper’s nature writing and telling observations. Farmhouse art includes delicious, random piles and vast mesmeric mosaics of spines on shelves, millions of words waiting to be revisited. Selfishly I take on the uplifting, meditative dawn and dusk task of watering the pots around the house and the two clover-clogged veg patches. July, with its predilection for parchment (ground as lifeless as the base line of centre court), is not without its jewels. Cicadas drum out the heat to the accompaniment of the dry-throat whisper of a breeze in the pines. The regular, mournful drone of the fire-crew flying boats, unnerving as a mosquito passing your ear, draws us out from the closed, cool farmhouse. They have finally figured out the difference between the squeak of the perforated irrigation pipes and rodents.
His tenure is over, and from nowhere an armada of delicate, fearless mustard dragonfly has sailed in to spice this water world. For days a war between two of these dynasties has been grimly engaged at the entrance to the chicken run, the prize being the food debris scattered therein.
With every circuit of the round mirror of water he hovered to study me, or rather my lily feet and ankles propped high on the curve of the wall. He will rule for just two weeks, almost constantly in flight seeking a female or prey – the power, majesty and frailty of life incarnate. I hope to see him every day of what life he has; he and our barn swallows and the martins sweeping in to drink. Below them, beyond the leaf canopy and bunches of the muscat vine that shades the front door, seven feet tall hollyhocks sway in the breeze, attended by several species of bees . After her burial some of her prized possessions, some goblets, were put in a basket and placed on her grave.
The tough flowers, spiny, toothed bracts, rise on rigid stalks and, as I sit enchanted I surmise that only the beefy carpenters are tough enough to breech them. There I counted six species of bees, sharing the air and nectar with a solitary humming bird hawk-moth.
We have had occasional thunderstorms and deluges, sustaining much of the green where normally the ground is parched. Electric fans will purr in every room and we will hide and wait for the relief of late afternoon breeze to reach us from the sea 15 kilometres away.
We believe it is important to take a deep interest, and we suffer unending unease about these core realities for our planet and our arrogance and persistent failure to read the signs and react as if our lives and those of our grandchildren depended on it. But who among the economic straight-jacketed world leaders, will have the strength to make an immediate, profound, defining difference, for you, me, everyone and the emperor?
Shaking The Tree, first published as a modest paperback in the UK in 2010, has now been updated and is set to go out into the world, telling the family’s story from 2003 to 2015.
Maggie has begun in the vineyard, but the olives await and we are too late to finish the almond grove. Leave the beauty of the woodpile with the robin on top, the happy sense of progress, the sun on our shoulders, and write about this feeling.


That first documentary was screened on Channel 4 in 2002 when ITV and the BBC were showing other highly popular programmes, a premiership football match, Footballers’ Wives and a natural history documentary about gorillas. The metallic, dung-loving, magnificent green bottle fly that I fished alive from the pool, for example, has but a couple of weeks from egg to death. It is so named because someone noted it coming into flower on June 24th, the birthday of John the Baptist; “wort” being an old English word for plant. A white is not one of the prolific ermine web spinners (orchard, spindle and bird-cherry) that can turn hedgerows white, but a spinner all the same, providing protection from predators. At the back of the olive grove on rougher ground a host of gipsy roses or butterfly blues – scabious – are a wild flower feast for the pollinators, including lesser swallowtails.
Even as you walk there are flashes from the host of blue-winged grasshoppers leaping out of your path.
When I put him back he wobbled; then, to save himself, he nudged the collective works of William Cowper who lost his footing.
I devour two or three novels a week, one of the joys of convalescence, a delicious sedative to counter the itch of idiotic guilt that I should be doing more. We have the usual glut of courgettes and an assortment of other produce, plus potatoes to lift and pears and plums at the point of ripening. Somehow unwatered wild sweet peas radiate from the base of olive trees, rust red shield beetles scurry, bee-eaters bask and fruits blush. Truth be known, though, afternoon temperatures have settled in the tolerable low to mid thirties – that’s ninety-plus but still lower than normal. We try to judge the planes’ direction, checking the angle of the wind and sniffing for the dire scent of smoke.
Pickpocket sparrows and finches dodge between them – it is as chaotic as a stock market trading floor, a feeding frenzy.
When the pump in the reservoir is plugged in fountains rise at random to water circles of lushness in iron land, and if I forget to turn it off an incongruous brook snakes down the dusty track. They are keeled skimmers, I think, darting hither and thither like a swarm of energised little children on the loose, then taking it in turns to settle on the tips of fennel for a short breather.
I may not brim with energy, but I watch it, sense and draw on it in the enchantment of outdoors. A few days ago a golden oriole failed to notice me and charmed his way through the olive grove, pausing at every tree in one row. The dead crown on the biggest tree needs to be lopped, but hasn’t been because it is also the pedestal for fluting orioles, warblers, finches and, more than most, the serins. Two powered para-gliders, the sharp colour of grapefruit, are edging along the valley, riding the cloudless sky. Then get on with the latest screenplay, maybe checking first if, like the eggs, we have some more orders for fresh olive oil.
Since then, my hubby and I have struggled with the ups and downs of two failed adoptions and are now LOVING being parents to our little man Asher who we brought home from Ethiopia in August of 2013. Mother’s Garden sits on part of the site of the International Brigades’ training camp before the fateful, final battle against Franco’s Fascists in 1938. It has to change from the endless panics of emergency appeals that give no certainty for victims and the aid workers as to how long crucial help can be given, and to recognise that the likes of Syria, Iraq and Yemen, worsening by the day, need a long-term humanitarian commitment and funding plan. The adults must have been in the shadows of the hazel grove beyond the plain trees, but we couldn’t see or hear them. What made me study Xanxa as she studied the swing was the flawless obedience, cognitive charm and contagious happiness, only the last of which can be found with our loopy terriers.
August opened with the clatter of thunder and puddles, so as I said the grasses have come again, much to the contentment of our equine barrel, now almost 30 and full of heart.
Coleridge clung on, but hardback Cowper plunged, smashing the face of my mobile phone idling on the bedside table. Most of the figs on the high boughs, too high for us anyway, have been torn open, their hearts ripped out, and their spent skins litter the earth.
Fifteen slow strides from the back door a wicker chair bides by the spring-fed reservoir and I drink the view, the sanctuary of nature and pulse of life. But the basket had been placed on the root of an acanthus, which grew, sending shoots up and around the basket, cupping it in foliage. The still morning air is always rich with life – hover flies, a ruby-tailed wasp (or cuckoo wasp) looking in the wall crevices for other insects’ nests, wasps and flying ants to name but a few. A pair of hoopoes has materialised to further lift spirits, while the whistle of the bee-eaters billows dawn and dusk. If you can’t come, but want to taste this life, we have delicious new harvest EV olive oil in the UK now for immediate delivery. It turns out one of the men has just retired from the UN, so I change the subject from the old wars to cravings for new peace. They are treasures you can easily pass by: The small flowers are deserving of you kneeling to take in the intricacy.
The time it takes for the lumbering aircraft to return gives us a rough idea of the distance from us to any emergency.
The architect Callimachus saw this and was inspired to use “the style and novelty of the grouping” in his marble carvings. The verdant resurgence will make the going tougher, though, for the rare Mediterranean tortoises, another of which, a 20-year-old male, emerged on the farm last week. Then, in a blink, a bee-eater came to copy the swallows, pulling out just in front of my toes and blasting its brilliance in a flap of panic inches from my face. I aim to return to work on another screenplay this month, one that is stirring interest in three countries. And sales of e-book Shaking The Tree, full of nonsense like this, continue to click upwards.



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