The olive is the chief wealth of Kabylia; it grows in the greatest luxuriance. The lower slopes of the mountains are covered with it, and some miles distant from Borj Boghni, at the foot of the Jurjura, there is an especially grand old forest. The berries are left lying in a heap for some days, during which time they undergo a certain amount of fermentation. They are next poured into round shallow depressions in the ground, made in an exposed spot, sometimes they are placed on the roofs of the houses. Here the sun ripens and softens them to the uttermost, extracting by evaporation water contained in them, and allowing the pulpy part to be easily disengaged from the kernel. They now look all shiny with oil, are of the deepest purple colour, and ready to be carried to the mill, where they are crushed in the manner I have described:
Then olives, ground in mills, their fatness boast.
The oil is extracted from the mass by pressure. A square block of masonry about a yard in height, contains a stone basin at the top of it, and a hole at the bottom of the basin allows the oil running out to be collected. Flat bags of alfa grass, filled with the crushed olives, are piled in the basin, a heavy flat piece of wood placed on the top, and pressure is brought to bear, by means of a wooden screw, which passes through a strong cross-beam, supported by two stout upright poles. The remains of the pressed mass are carried to some stream, where holes about three feet deep are arranged so that water from the stream can enter and afterwards be allowed to run off. When the holes are filled, the remains of the olives are thrown in, the women tuck up their dresses and jump in too, beating and knocking the mass about, and the refuse dirty water is allowed to escape.
Soap is manufactured from the oily residue, by mixture with wood ashes.
But to return from this digression. We went from Taourirt to Tamjoot, about a mile distant and somewhat lower, on one of the arms of the mountain. The rocky pathway passed through a little open cemetery, where a beautiful group of cork and ash formed a leafy bower above. In the background, the little village appeared perched on a prominence, and the picture was completed by the magnificent outline and precipices of the mountains.
GATHERING OLIVES.
Like some fair olive, by my careful hand
He grew, he flourish’d, and adorn’d the land.
Pope’s Iliad, Book xviii.