The ceiling of the olive-pickers' hut: rough-hewn, debarked olive branches laid across the pleasantly undulating metre-thick slate walls and topped with rough-cut slate, a few centimetres of earth and, more recently, a thin skin of cement. The thick walls harbour equally wobbly-looking alcoves. After a few months here, spending a night in a modern, all-mod-cons, utterly geometric hotel room just about induced a panic attack: something inside had connected strongly to - or through - the aesthetic embodied here. (Want a closer look?)