Summer might be thought of as the time for tourists, but in this part of France it is the village fêtes that hold far more importance. However small the community, each seems to put on some sort of do. Clearly (as will be seen later) health and safety concerns have not yet smothered local enthusiasm and, generally speaking, they are rather a hoot. They often involve dancing, and are a chance for the local lotharios to show off their skills (taken very seriously), and perhaps start a new illicit relationship (see photo above).
They are also a chance for people en masse (mainly women) to make complete arses of themselves in a spirit of group delusionism (perhaps partially brought on by the consumption of large amounts of cheap/free red wine).
The food, though, is often very good. This Paella (now adopted as one of France's national dishes) was delicious - and there was lots of it. The ticket price varies from about 6 to 15 euros and always includes three courses, as much wine as you like and, of course, whatever "entertainment" is on offer.
Very relaxed, very friendly, and a good time had by all (or most, depending if you were hoping to get lucky or not).
This was a kind of music festival held at the bottom of the spectacular "donjon" at Montcuq. As far as we could tell, anyone with any pretensions at all with regard to singing was able to get up and have a go. There was a group of worthy middle aged folk, more reminiscent of a bridge club, who sang a medley of Occitan songs, a number of aging ex-rock musicians, a few karaoke hopefuls, as well as lots of children, both individually and in groups.
Amongst the local school choir, there were some excellent singers. It was just a pity the teacher hadn't bothered to turn up to lead them. They needed leading. And the two boys on the left, being rather overwhelmed by girls, definitely needed moral (and vocal) support. In the end, the show was completely stolen by a young girl of about thirteen, whose singing might have made even Simon Cowell lost for words.
The most memorable fete we have yet been to, though, has to be the fete de la St Jean in the tiny commune of Fargues. Originally this was apparently a pagan festival to mark the passing of the summer solstice but, like so many other rituals in France, it became Christianised. It now is supposed to signify the coming of John the Baptist and the bonfires associated with the festival, represent the light of Christ coming into the world. We were told that, originally, it was a time for the young men of the village to select their maidens, or for the maidens to select their young men. Various stories abound about the village girls showing themselves off as they dance round the flames of the bonfire, or boys demonstrating their daring and prowess by leaping over the flames of the fire. Yet again, it all seems to be about getting lucky - or not.
The bonfire may be an excuse to wait until dark, but the enthusiasm of the bonfire builders at Fargues meant that it was simply (and dangerously) too big, and too (dangerously) close to everything that was going on (or might go on). Luckily the meal took place before they lit the bonfire. Once it took hold it became an inferno.
People abandoned their places as the plastic cups started to melt and smoke began to drift up from the now smouldering tables. The whole thing had been set up in a field just outside the village, and the field was tinder dry. Clearly, even by French health and safety standards, things were beginning to get a bit dodgy.
An enterprising young farmer quickly got hold of a tractor with a slurry tank attached and started to spray the burning grass (with slurry). This did the trick. At least, that is to say, it prevented the fire from spreading out of control. It didn't, however, do much for the romance of the evening.
Soon the whole place was enveloped in a steamy cloud of foul smelling atomised slurry. All notions of ardour were extinguished along with the flames and, being by now almost impossible to breathe, people started (quite rapidly) to drift away, and the evening sadly came to a premature end. It could only happen in France.
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