The delapidated house I bought a couple of years ago, here in Spain has almost two acres of land with it.
To the rear of the house there is pine forest, which provides wonderful shade in Summer and which also means we are on protected land. The Spanish authorities protect the trees. I don't know how old the forest is, but walking up the hill, the pines are gradually invading and taking over old olive groves. It's wild and beautiful up there.
To the front of the house, the garden slopes downhill over seven layers of terrace, all planted out with fruit trees, mainly the oranges so beloved of the Valencians. I've never actually counted them , but there are certainly over a hundred trees out there in the orchards.
All my friends, when I tell them this, immediately start to wax lyrical about the joys of freshly squeezed orange juice, and sun-warmed oranges eaten straight from the tree. I can hardly disagree with them, but for me, the real luxury is being able to pick the lemons. I love cooking, and to be able to take the humble roast chicken, and transform it by stuffing with lemons and bay leaves from the garden, rosemary, oregano and thyme picked wild from the track leading up the mountain; for me, there is nothing better.
Having said all that, the apricots are in full flood right now. This is really bad news for me, as I invariably eat too many of them as I wander round the garden, scrumping as I go. The obvious consequences of too much fresh fruit catch up with me a few hours later, but that'll not stop me doing it again.
And perhaps I can have some cherries before the birds get them all......