Quotes from Carol Drinkwater

Olives changed the direction of my life. My husband Michel and I found a ruined farm with an olive grove near Cannes. I became fascinated by olives and found myself travelling around the Mediterranean for 17 months, researching two books on the subject.

Although I still think of myself as an actress, most of my time is spent writing novels or memoirs about my adventures and travels.

The olive tree is a tree full of health. It is a symbol of eternity. Of all things, it has peace attached to it.

There are more than 800 different types of olive tree and each region has its own varieties, creating unique flavours.

Provence off the beaten track offers silence, stillness, sweet scents, eagles, chestnuts, endless avenues shaded by plane trees, fabulous walking, cycle tracks and beaches to die for.

The richness and generosity of the human spirit I discovered in those journeys, meeting with olive farmers and people caught up in war was very humbling for me. Also, finding trees that were six or seven thousand years old made me realise what a tiny pea I am in the world.

Until half a century ago, the Maures slopes had been silvery with olive trees, but in 1956 disaster struck. February frosts dropped beneath minus seven and the trees were blighted.

Paris, the City of Light, never fails to enchant. With its jazz clubs, music in the streets, outdoor restaurants. The clatter of knives and forks at street-side cafes. Chic and trendy students embracing in the streets.

Personal loss is a trial that we all face. Like every negative challenge we rise to it or we don't. You grow stronger as you work your way through whatever life has thrown at you or you buckle and go under.

As I drove westwards along the A8, the purple hills of the Massif des Maures were rising towards a clear bluebell sky. Cradled within the Var between Frejus and Hyeres lies a bewitching hinterland, a low mountain range known in Provencal as Lei Mauro: the Sombre Ones.

At Appassionata we produced relatively small amounts of our very own, premier-class, deliciously peppery olive oil. Olive farming wasn't my trade, but it had become a passion.

Organic olive farming was going to be a particularly tricky challenge, but Michel and I needed to take a risk and let the problems iron themselves out as we came up against them. It was time to make a leap of faith, just like we'd done when buying this farm.

I still find it difficult to cope with the solitude of writing. I often crave the feedback of working with a team.

Part of the thing about why I wrote memoirs rather than a novel is that if anybody is going to tell my story it is going to be me in my way.

The French take their festive platters seriously and spend lavishly on them. Christmas Eve, rather than Christmas Day, is when they tuck into the big family meal known as Le Gros Souper or Le Reveillon. Traditionally, it was served after the return from midnight Mass.

My childhood was quite turbulent and there was sometimes great insecurity about money.

How many worlds make up a life!

I am moving the rudder, shifting the course of my life. I have not thought of it this way before, but that is what I am doing. Taking my fate into my own hands, turning dreams into reality. And there is nothing more sacred or precious than that. To choose a direction: but how often do we miss the signposts?

Nothing lasts forever. But there is new life; new colours, fresh words, new tunes to compose. There is now; time present, time future. We build with new bricks and hope our voices are heard, our music is sung and our love cherished for as long as it is offered.

presentation, she looked drawn, as old as the limestone hills behind her property. Her facial skin was marbled, hair greying at the roots. She had grown frail, as though she might disintegrate at the first touch; she was a desiccated, vulnerable shadow of her former self and it was hard to

I am reminded that love is timeless and regenerative. There is no beginning or end. All things are changing; nothing dies. And like the wind, love leaves its imprints everywhere.

Somewhere within the meeting of our eyes, our souls were bonding, even if our day to day lives were far apart.

Every fruit that bedecked Cecile's gaily-dressed stall had been grown on her own holding.

The Garden of Gethsemane is halfway up the Mount of Olives, where Christ grappled with his courage during those last dark hours of life. Today it is a Franciscan monastery.