Gerrit(58)

Almere was functional. Well-connected, affordable, but without soul. After my divorce and a reorganization at my employer, I looked at my life and thought: is this it? I'd always been fascinated by olive cultivation — I'd read books, watched documentaries and taken courses. Nyons, in northern Provence, is known as the "olive capital of France" with its AOP Nyons olives. That's where I wanted to go.

I bought an oliveraie (olive grove) of 3 hectares with 200 Tanche olive trees and a small stone house for €175,000. SAFER had to give approval — as with any agricultural land in France. I had to demonstrate I was a serious exploitant: a business plan, a certificate from the Chambre d'Agriculture and proof of my training. After three months I got the green light.

The first year was a learning experience. Olive trees require specific pruning (taille), irrigation in summer and protection from the mistral (the cold northern wind). Harvest is in November-December: I pick by hand and with a vibreur (shaking machine). The olives go to the moulin (oil mill) in Nyons, where they're pressed into huile d'olive vierge extra. My production is 800 liters per year — small, but the quality is AOP-certified.

I sell my oil three ways: at the Nyons marché (Thursday), through a coopérative oléicole and directly to restaurants in the region. A liter of AOP Nyons oil sells for €18-22. Besides oil I make tapenade, olive paste and pickled olives. Total annual revenue is about €30,000. As an exploitant agricole I pay contributions to the MSA (Mutualité Sociale Agricole) — about 35% of my bénéfice agricole.

The cost of living in Nyons is low. My stone house has no mortgage, the taxe foncière is €520 per year and my monthly costs are €800 all-in. I eat from my vegetable garden and olive grove, buy cheese and meat at the marché and drink wine from the Côtes du Rhône for €4 per bottle. My state pension starts in two years — until then I live from olive oil sales and a small savings pot.

Life as an olive farmer is physical, lonely at times and weather-dependent. But it's also honest, tangible and deeply satisfying. I wake with the sun, work in the grove, lunch under a plane tree and sell my product to people who appreciate it. At the marché I now know everyone: the cheese maker, the butcher, the florist. They call me "le Hollandais aux olives" and I wear that title with pride. Almere feels like another life.