Among the warm stones of the South and the dry-stone walls that shape the land, the Prickly Pear stands tall—like a silent guardian of the Apulian landscape. And yet, it is not native to this land. Its roots, deep and stubborn, speak another language—that of ancient pre-Columbian civilizations.
Native to Mexico, Opuntia ficus-indica was cultivated long before the conquistadors set foot in the New World. It was considered a sacred plant, symbolizing strength and new beginnings—so much so that the founding of Tenochtitlán (modern-day Mexico City) is linked to a vision of an eagle perched on a cactus, devouring a serpent—a symbol that still adorns the national flag.

On the other side of the ocean, the “Old World” unknowingly awaited the arrival of this new protagonist. After the discovery of the Americas, the plant crossed the Atlantic on the ships of explorers, first finding its way into European noble gardens where it drew curious eyes, and then rooting itself with surprising tenacity in the hot, stony soils of the South.
In Apulia, Sicily, Greece, Morocco—anywhere with dry climates and abundant sun—it found fertile ground. Today, we can no longer imagine the Mediterranean landscape without its robust, jagged forms. It may not be indigenous, but it has become naturalized.

A botanical architecture
The Prickly Pear belongs to the large Cactaceae family. It is a succulent plant, and its “pads”—actually modified stems called cladodes—act as water reservoirs, allowing it to survive even the harshest droughts. It has no leaves; in their place, spines. Tiny but troublesome, like glochids—those fine, irritating hairs that cover the fruit and require expert hands to remove.

Its fruits, known as prickly pears, are colourful surprises: yellow, red, orange. Beneath the spiny skin lies a sweet, juicy pulp packed with nutrients. It contains vitamin C, fibre, natural sugars, and minerals. It’s not just tasty—it’s also a precious source of hydration and energy.
The plant asks for very little in return: poor but well-drained soils are enough. It withstands wind, salt, and relentless heat. It is a living lesson in resilience.

Symbols, sayings, and legends
It’s not only its toughness that has embedded it in Mediterranean culture, but also the meanings it has acquired over time. In Mexico, the prickly pear is still a national symbol; in Italy, it became the “bread of the poor,” a symbol of rustic abundance and resilience. Its thorns protect, its fruit nourishes, and its presence reassures.

Literature has praised it in the verses of Sicilian poets, who celebrated it as a symbol of identity, struggle, and belonging. In the Apulian countryside, it was said that placing a cactus pad at the entrance of a home could ward off evil spirits—acting as a natural shield against unseen threats.
The prickly pear is protection, survival, and an important food source for people in arid climates.

Ancient and modern uses
Every part of the plant has found a purpose through the centuries. The fruits, harvested from August to October, can be eaten fresh or turned into jams, syrups, and liqueurs. In some parts of Apulia, they become ice creams, granitas, and refreshing salads. Once de-spined, the peels are even cooked in sweet and sour dishes, following traditional peasant recipes.

The young, tender pads are boiled and served as a vegetable or used in herbal decoctions to soothe the stomach and skin. Inside them is a gel similar to aloe, useful for relieving burns and small wounds. Their anti-inflammatory and healing properties have been passed down for generations.

But that’s not all. The pads were once used as livestock feed during droughts, and mature plants—dense and strong—helped demarcate property lines, acting as natural barriers against wind, animals, and intruders. Even today, they host the cochineal insect, from which a prized natural red dye is extracted—still used in foods and cosmetics.

The Prickly Pear is more than a plant. It tells the story of time and people—across deserts and borderlands, through pain and sweetness. It reminds us that gentleness doesn’t require delicacy to be real. That strength often reveals itself in quiet persistence.
Thorn and fruit, guardian and nourishment—the Prickly Pear is all of this. And perhaps, like it, we too can learn to bloom not in spite of our hardships, but through them.