By RACHAEL ADAMS
I’m as high as a kite, having just sped as fast as I could back down the ravine on my vintage road bike. The sun dazzles my eyes, so they don’t have time to adjust to the dark on the overgrown parts of the track. Dangling vines and tendrils smash against my face as I blast back out into the sunlight. I zoom up the hill and hop off my bike gasping, thrilled to be back in such a lush spot. Flora is just polishing off her meal, her calm aura counteracting my intrusive hyper one. Business-like, she dons her gum boots, trusty poncho and unfailing straw hat. Off we trot.
We weave through the pomegranates, past the banana and bay trees, and stop to admire a lime. We pick one and scratch the skin off to smell it. “Mind your step,” says Flora as I follow her through the tumbling morning glory and horsetails, agog. I pick my way over the stone slab that covers the ancient Arab water channel hewn in the rock. And then I see it.
The most wondrous, ginormous, green caterpillar. I’m still trying to take in all the vibrant colours, distracted by the scent of lime on my fingers and the sound of trickling water. “Surely I must be in another world” – I breathe.
Flora holds the vines aside like a curtain and beckons me into her gourd tunnel from under her hat. “Well welcome into yet another world”. I Step into the matrix.
I first met Flora at the beautiful Molí de Baix farm this spring when I wrote about her avocados. Her father bought the place in 1981. She moved here from Holland in her early 20s and worked as a florist at Truvi Garden Centre in Ferreries, and later in Sant LLuis. After that, she came back to the farm and now looks after it herself.
Her home in the ravine, or the Barranc d’ Algendar, is beyond description: a plant and birdlife explosion hidden between vast limestone cliffs. I was delighted to discover that she’s not just a farmer, but a florist and an artist. She does flower arrangements with the wild plants her ravine provides and grows her gourds to make lamps, bowls and candleholders. So now I’m back to write about these too.
THE GOURDS
We are inside the caterpillar, a living, pulsing, calabash tunnel. Planted from seed, the sinewy vines have clambered up a cane and metal trellis and now entomb us in a leafy shelter. Green bulbous fruits dangle everywhere, around 200 to 300 of them. There’s a wild array of Asian, Indonesian and Menorcan strains. Some have hybridised to become mongrel gourds. A few are mottled whilst others are more yellowy. One looks like a wrinkled bommy knocker out of the Flintstones. It’s a ‘Dinosaur skin’.
The idea is that hanging gourds grow into a better shape — while those lying on the ground would get a squashed side. Dangling from above also helps reduce predation, and increase aeration which in turn prevents mould from settling in. I’m told it’s possible to put gourds in boxes or use bands to encourage different shapes. In this way, one can make oneself a Buddha gourd, even.
Young gourds are coated in small bristles. After a few months, they become smooth and paler as they ripen. The longer they’re on the vine, the thicker and harder the skins get — which is the aim if we want to make a lamp out of it. Enthralled, I try not to trip on the drip system hose, nor chip a tooth on the engorged bommy knocker looming in my face. We kneel on the ground together to examine the soil. Phew!
Once mature assessed by lifting and checking the weight the gourds are cut at the stalk. Next, the three donkeys are diverted from their lawn mowing to carrying basketloads of booty back up to the house to dry out. Once dry they can be stored indefinitely. We exit the grub and I duck to save my head – feeling like a child hiding in this fragrant, cool, caterpillar tent.
We wander back to the house through the orchard. A flock of migrating starlings roars over us. I squint further up the sheer cliff walls and am put out to find a plane interrupting my view. The real world is still up there. I quickly lower my head and sniff my lime fingers again. Wood smoke is mingling with the scent of everything else I can’t identify. I can hear the gurgling torrent hidden behind the walnut tree.
Fortunately for other people who aren’t writers, visitors can come here too – for a small fee of course. Flora welcomes visitors in guided groups, only from September to March so as not to disturb the breeding Egyptian vultures. She explains about the plants, her fruit farm, and the history and legends of the Barranc d’ Algendar, in all its majesty. She will share any fruits that are in season and folk can bring their picnics.
Though she takes groups of up to 15 people, we’re reminded to keep quiet to avoid ruining the tranquillity reigning here. Having said that, it’s hard to hear her above all the birdsong. The money from the tours gets reinvested in preserving this most delicate and unique environment, so it’s well spent.
I take my leave as sparrows fly out of the honeycomb holes in the rock above our heads. A pigeon coos, turns around and takes aim. Flora scoots off to get a couple of hours strimming in before dark. I make my way slowly along the track to civilisation, walls lined with capers where the sun hits, holm oaks presiding where it doesn’t. A kestrel glides over from one side of the cliff face to the other. I can hear spotted flycatchers, black caps, marsh tits and robins. I like the crunching of the dry leaves underfoot and am glad to have two or three km of this to gather my thoughts. Sighhhh.
Guided tours are available in English, Menorcan, Spanish and Dutch.
Find out more at www.esmolidebaix.es/en/
To book one though, it’s best to contact Flora directly by message on her WhatsApp 0034650202021 as the network is patchy at best. To explore her art visit www.floraritman.es/
Rachael Adams is a freelance environmental journalist. Read her articles at https://rachaeladamsblog.live/
