33) Nature in the raw

A rather large but beautiful spider's web in the woods

We seem to have found ourselves rather (too) close to nature in recent days.  It certainly is quite out in the wilds here and we hear all sorts of strange noises around us - the barking of deer, the calling of buzzards, not to mention things buzzing about or hopping through the grass.

I try to take my camera with me as much as possible, but the other day on our way to our local market I forgot it.  As soon as we realised this, we said it'll be sod's law that we are bound to see something amazing.  Sure enough, on our way back, an enormous buzzard flew just yards (metres) from the car windscreen with a writhing foot (30cm) long snake in it's beak.  It was amazing.  The snake, we have convinced ourselves, was merely a grass snake - and thus perfectly harmless.

A picture is worth a thousand words.  How true (see side of van)

The other day there was great excitement, as I had finally got hold of the correct number for Mr Delsol, the assassin of guepes, frelons and all creatures great and small most of us wish the good Lord had not made at all (as can be seen from the rather terrifying, oversized image on the side of Mr Delsol's white van).

Our hornet's nest (taken on full telephoto - very quietly)

We discovered what I thought was a wasp's nest under the bolet (outside steps) leading up to the front door of the little house.  However, our fount-of-all-knowledge neighbour pointed out that, in fact, it was a hornet's nest (eeeeeeeeeeeek).  Our neighbour turned out to be something of a world expert on the subject of hornets (frelons), and he assured us that not only was it a hornet's nest, but they were Asian hornets (this was said with great gravitas and foreboding, and was enough to cause panic in even the bravest soul, let alone someone terrified of any live wasp in close proximity.  He informed me that they were tres dangereux and that if you went within ten metres of their nest they would surely attaque.  He cautioned me et Madame King to take extreme care.  Gulp.... Luckily,  our neighbour knew a man who could deal with them, and he gave me his number.  Unfortunately, in my state of heightened distress, I took down the wrong number.  I rang but there was no reply.  I left a rather garbled message in confused French saying something about a problem with un nid de frelons and I thought that the frelons were quite possibly Asiatique.  

There is great significance in the Asiatique bit because, apparently these little (actually rather big) devils landed in France (I think in Bordeaux) in some sort of boat and have, ever since, been preying on innocent beehives and causing untold havoc amongst the indigenous bee population.

Our friendly hornet killer kitted out for battle

It was thus my patriotic duty to call in an assassin to deal with this nest of predatory (and, according to our neighbour, pathologically crazed) creatures.  I tried the number again and got some bemused woman who asked if I was the Monsieur who had left a message about the hornet's nest.  Oui, oui, bien sur I said, greatly encouraged that she had got my message (though slightly surprised - I don't know why - to hear a female voice).  You have obviously have the wrong number she then said.  Merde!, I said to myself, and I apologized to the rather amused lady on the other end of the phone, who obviously did not fully understand the seriousness of the situation.

Having gone back to the neighbour (who had yet more horrifying tales to tell about the dreaded frelons), I now had the right number and, within about half an hour, Monsieur Delsol the exterminator, had arrived, complete with ubiquitous white van, an interesting array of death chemicals and (the very necessary) protective clothing.

It was all over in a few seconds.  First he punctured a hold in the nest, then in went the powder.  He assured me they would all be dead within three days.  I asked him if he could possibly come back to check.  He said that really wasn't necessary, but after I had pressed the point , he agreed.

Ominous tracks in the dust

We had also been wondering for some time what sort of creature (if any) lived down the quite large hole in the barn floor.  And I noticed the other day there were tracks leading to it.  I was having a coffee on the terrace outside the other night and I heard rustling in the undergrowth on the side of the hill.  It was obviously a creature of some size and at first I thought it might be a dog.  Then I saw it, bold as brass loloping across the lawn - it was a polecat.  Apparently, these rather beautiful creatures are now quite rare, so we are very lucky to have one, apparently living in our barn (though G is less than thrilled by the idea - rather like les frelons, les putois can be quite vicious too if they feel threatened.

A European Polecat (not my picture - it was too dark and he/she was too quick)

It turned out that the hornet assassin was also an expert on les putois.  Rather resignedly, he told me he was unable to kill it (I hadn't actually asked him to but I fear this assumption has something to do with his job) because in France they were protected (they must be about the only animal that is).  He assured me, however, that they didn't like humans - their smell (he added rather pointedly).  Probably it had moved in when the house was unoccupied, and the chances were that it would move out of its own accord, now there was the smell of humans around.  Otherwise it might move to the attic once the weather got colder, and here it would be real nuisance, nibbling away at things, making noises in the middle of the night, and to cap it all they themselves smell terrible.  We have decided to not wash for a month and keep our fingers crossed.

32) The silly season

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.