Myrtle Claus
puff. puff. Pofpofpof...pof...pof... I wake up with a start on the early Sunday morning. Gunshots. My sleepy head can't organize my thoughts. 'Shit, still war' and 'If only I had bought more groceries yesterday' quickly cross my mind. Far in the distance there is still a dull thud.
I think of the man who built our house. He once said with a grin that was not too cheerful that a dull thud in his Sicilian village had nothing to do with shooting rabbits. rabbits. Of course. It's Sept. The hunters are out again. I crawl deeper under the covers to continue sleeping. The church clock strikes seven. 'I'll have to find the brightly colored jackets soon' is the last thing on my mind before sinking again.
Fairy tales and 'real hunters'
Before we moved here, hunters and hunting were a far-from-my-bed show. Something from fairy tales and times long gone. At least not anything from now. The first time I saw a pack of hunters in the wild was a special experience. All tight in hunting suits with green caps. Their shotguns casually slung over the shoulder. And surrounded by a pack of sniffing dogs. What amazed me the most was the place where we met. Not in a forest or along the edge of a grassland where you would expect them. It was in the olive grove near friends' house. Wild boars love olives.
'Not in my backyard'
Our usually very hospitable friend could not appreciate this unannounced visit. With restrained anger and eyes that shot fire, he urged the men to leave his private property. And not to forget that we were there. And that there were children running around playing hide and seek. The first sounded quite menacing and I was convinced he knew what to do against gunmen. I couldn't quite place that second comment.
'That they supposedly go somewhere else to enjoy nature and do their tough man things. No noise in my backyard," my friend muttered as he walked in. And shortly afterwards came out again with brightly colored coats, hats and scarves. He called the garments 'life savers' and obliged us to pick olives for the rest of the day as a motley crew, talking loudly and singing cheerfully. Helped by the kids; playing hide and seek in a bright red jacket with a yellow hat is simply not the ultimate.
Lots of color and noise
It may seem a bit exaggerated, but our friend was right. Not counting the shot game, dozens of people are killed every year during the hunt. Guns that go off accidentally, the less sharp look after the umpteenth sip from the pocket bottle. As a hiker, mushroom picker, olive picker and even fellow hunter, there is a chance that you will be mistaken for a wild boar.
By the way, playing children can look suspiciously like a pheasant, hidden in the bushes. Making sure you stand out reduces the chance of an error of judgment. That brightly colored outfit, the storytelling and the singing while picking increase the fun at the same time. The dull bangs then disappear into the background by themselves.
Search, search, search
Our friend is unfortunately no longer there. His olive grove does. And of course the brightly colored protection he gave us. The only question is where did I keep it. Luckily I still have some time to dig out the cupboards. We only rake the new harvest from the trees at the end of October, beginning of November. Singing loudly and talking the way he taught us, whether shooting in the area or not.
Image hunters: YouTube
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