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The red earth of Thessaly clings to the boots of the men in the barn, it crunches lightly on the concrete underfoot; some falls from the eldest, 90, as he leans forward in his chair to talk.

The farm is a family affair – three generations all helping each other, but today the entire village is here, and they have been since dawn – it is harvest. The day’s work is done now, the fierce heat of the day has crept into every corner, and the workers unwind. Food is on the table. Even the priest is there. Some drink beer, some drink the mountain tea they have just picked.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” says the grandfather. The room goes still. “Greece is a holy country,” says the old man, “Blessed by God to grow nutritious food. They have proof.” He glances skyward. There is a glint in his eye. “Proof from space… you can see the land forms a holy cross to keep us safe.” The priest nods. The old man breaks into a crooked chuckle, his eyes shine. The room breaks out into laughter.

“You can laugh,” says the old man, “You can laugh. You there sipping your beer, but look at me… like an ox, I’m twice your age and look half.”

He sips his mountain tea. “You want to drink what I drink."