A Morning at the Lebanese Olive Orchard

As dawn blushed over the Mount Lebanon range, I wandered into a sun-dappled orchard where the air hummed with the earthy scent of sun-baked soil and the tang of ripening olives. Sunlight filtered through silvery leaves, casting lattice shadows on gnarled tree trunks that twisted like ancient sculptures. A farmer in a keffiyeh shook an olive tree, purple fruit raining into a net with soft thuds. "These trees have stood here since Solomon’s time," he said, brushing dust from a weathered trunk.
Near the stone mill, a woman poured olives into a wooden press, her hands stained green from the pulp. I watched as the millstone groaned to life, crushing the olives into a paste that oozed golden oil. A stray cat napped on a pile of olive branches, its fur dusted with silvery leaves, while a lizard sunned itself on a warm wall, its throat pulsing with the morning’s rhythm. Somewhere in the distance, a muezzin’s call echoed from a village mosque, blending with the soft murmur of a nearby stream.
The farmer handed me a jar of fresh olive oil, its warmth seeping through the glass. "Taste—this carries the sun’s fire," he said, dipping pita bread into the oil. The flavor was rich and peppery, lingering on my tongue like the memory of a sunlit hillside.
By mid-morning, the orchard buzzed with activity: trucks arrived to collect crates of olives, a chef prepared tabbouleh with the oil, and children played among the trees, their laughter echoing off the ancient stones. I left with oil on my fingers, reminded that in Lebanon, mornings unfold in the slow press of time—where every olive holds the mountain’s resilience, and every drop of oil is a hymn to the land’s timeless soul.

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