The fig trees we picked were at about the level of the ancient roof. They are descendants of an orchard that was cultivated long ago, behind the house. Their fruit will have rolled downhill and, rotting, given its seeds to make the big trees. It was strange to speculate on the lives of the family and workers whose daily setting was this ground. In their busy existence, they wouldn't have stopped to speculate who might, one hundred years later, come casually reaping the harvest of their labors.
Figs are the very devil for tenacity.
I've seen a fig tree rooted and flourishing in the roof of an old house, sucking up the moisture stored in the stones. Myself, I love a fig tree, especially on summer nights, when the cinnamon-like odor of the big, coarse leaves is released into the warm air. Cows obviously like to munch on the fruit they can reach, for under most trees you will find a cow patty - not objectionable if it's dried out, for then it only smells a bit like the cow itself. So Leonie and I stood under the branches of the fig trees, searching for ripe fruit to bring home and preserve. At first, I picked only big, showy figs, disdaining the ones that seemed undersized.