The Catalan village of El Masroig crests a wave of rock on the high sea of stone and soil known as the Priorat mountains.

In the valleys to the north and south roll out patchworks of tiny farms, forty or so, none more than a few unforgiving acres, all sewn with ribbons of vines and trees.

And it is here in these arbequina groves, first planted with olives in the rule of Rome, that they quietly go about making some of the finest olive oil in the world.

People like Ramon and Dolors. We found them spreading their nets on their red-soil terraces, husband and wife working together as is so often the way, open and welcoming as the day is long.

We had just left the village mill where the fruit of the new harvest was trundling in, carried in small vans or on trailers pulled by tractors of all ages. Seventy-eight year old Josep was there, chewing on a sprig of rosemary, a few crates in the back of his Citroën; Eugeni, too, and others, all following the golden rule of bringing in the crop for pressing straight after harvest, once or twice a day.

Ramon and Dolors have 1,000 olive trees, and as many again of cherries. With such a crop other hands are needed to help, but when we met up with them they were alone, chatting and gathering, Ramon, 68, hauling laden nets over his shoulder from one tree to the next like a fisherman.

The November sun was strong, but the trees cast great clouds of shadow. We talked of olive oil and the provenance of food. They know exactly where theirs comes from because they grow much of it. And of oil they exclaimed, as do all who know the fundamentals of the Latin diet, "Young oil, old wine!"

That is why we put the pressing and bottling dates on every bottle of Mother's Garden El Masroig olive oil. A stone's throw to the east, along another bumpy track patterned with warn rocks and the roots of pine trees, decorated pink here and there by wild heather, I found Eugeni and Pilar, another partnership of this land who, like Ramon, Dolors and Josep, are the faces of cooperation and community.

All are members of the village cooperative with whom we work, a society of some 40 families who put their lots together, whether it be in the making of wine, the gathering of nuts or the growing and pressing of the olive. It is a way of life that ripples across all of rural Spain. Within these pictures, you are looking at key reasons why we came to live here – and why we stay.

The beauty is beguiling, but that is but an ounce of it. The space and peace are important, but alone are not enough. It is the fruit it bears as much as anything, by which I mean the old ways and wisdom, the culture and the real feeling of a rhythm and rural value and community that still hold, just.

But standing in the blissful groves watching these couples at work, one wonders how life can continue with less and less young blood in the village. Many of the children have gone to the cities and have no wish or little incentive to farm.

I have mentioned before of the abiding sense of travelling back in time here, in these remote mountains of Catalonia, an hour and half south of bustling Barcelona. We can see what could be just around the corner.

Yet at the mill there are hopes and some keen minds. The young people working there and the elders of the cooperative have, like in a neighbouring village, set their stall to take on the world.

We have been back at the mill in the last few days, tasting the various pressings and choosing which we will ship to England through the year, beginning with a new harvest treat this coming week. Tasting is Maggie's art (among many), for twice her selections have gone on to win awards. There are springs in the steps of those running the press, while at the back of the mill where the conveyor belt chunters incessantly, the farmers come to unload their olives, chatting while they wait their turn. It is, as harvests always are, a time of renewed optimism and belief, and we feel blessed to be part of it.

Homeward bound, at dusk, when the last of the honey rays kiss farewell to the mighty Montsant mountain guarding this tiny region, and the scattered streetlights flicker into life, El Masroig seemed to me like a ship at anchor, the cypress trees of the cemetery at the bow, the red dome of the church standing tall like the bridge.

The Mother's Garden olive trees were not, though, anything so joyful.

Spring rains, a very localised squall, had dashed so many of the flowers before they could set and what olives we had seemed sparse and difficult to reach on account of our feeble pruning.

The annual November sharing of the labour and the oil between ourselves and three equally small neighbouring farms had, in the rains of late October, all the makings of a miserable disaster.

The real fear was we might not make the 500 kilos necessary for our own pressing. That was really depressing, because we have always brought home the oil from our trees. If we didn't make the weight then our oil would be mixed with that from goodness knows where, and the magic would be lost. It is provenance once again – being certain of exactly where your food has come from.

We began at Benet's and Marta's. They had even fewer fruits than us, which had been plain to see because their trees run beside the lane up to the village. So we moved to Roger's and Angela's in search of hope. The abundance surprised us and suddenly the sun shone all the brighter.

Our trees were a little more generous than we had thought and on that second day, a Sunday, children free-ranged the farm under clear-blue skies and four families and assorted friends gathered under the walnut tree in front of the house to share food and humour.

At that moment, to the distant sound of offspring galloping hither and thither calling to one another, we agreed it was one of those anchor days of life, a moment to log forever.