Character, greenery, and excellence.
Our essence.

Nests of life

In the land, her favorite terrace was the one with the largest olive trees—centuries-old, millennia-old, or who knows how old.

She loved that terrace because the trunks were thick and she could easily climb them to see everything from another perspective, touching the sky.
And also because, being a hollow, it was full of life and hosted a great variety of birds—her weakness.

Among all the birds, her favorite was the Eurasian blue tit. For its oil-and-sky colors, its enchanting song, agile flight, and impossible balance from branch to branch.
When she climbed the olive trees, she played at being a blue tit, performing acrobatics along the branches and jumping while flapping her arms to take flight.
She loved watching them and learning from them; the blue tits knew the land well: streams, ponds and puddles, the oldest trunks for nesting, orchards, fields with grain and fruit... And also the shed where the family had breakfast—the corner of the crumbs. She, the youngest at home, had the habit of scattering more crumbs than necessary so that, from afar and hidden behind a bank, she could watch the magnificent dance of the blue tits.

She was also fascinated by the nests in olive trunks, cushioned with moss. Whenever she found a patch of moss, she would lie on her back and let her mind wander. Then, curled up, she imitated the song of the blue tit so well that the chicks would answer her from the nest, hungry.
She also watched their first erratic flights. And she always worried about the runt, the last of the brood, the least clever, bringing it worms and caterpillars. One of them struggled especially, and she devoted herself to caring for it body and soul.
She observed it, fed it, and even built it a nest box with a high-comfort moss bed.
And she gave it a name: Blaveta.

They shared such complicity that Blaveta would come close without fear and sit on her lap. Everything was chirps of complicity and joy, affection and sweetness. They were nest. They were love.

Time flew by. The tiny blue tit grew and took flight.
And so did she. Her restless and curious spirit pushed her to see the world, far from her beloved land. In her suitcase she always carried a bottle of oil and a nest box she built herself. In fact, whenever she chose a place to live, she always thought about where she would place the nest box so she could see it from her window.
And where she would scatter the crumbs. And so, she filled the world with nest boxes, crumbs, birds, and joy.

The journey continues. And everything returns. At home, in the square, at the fountain, in the land, in the nest boxes, on the docks, on a slice of bread, in every drop of oil.

An oil that is aroma, a countryside breakfast, a horizon, the crumbs of a moment, the flight of the blue tit, joy, love.

It is a nest. It is her.

Author — Joan Bonmatí