The Very Best Legumes in France

Here I was, just me and the flies, ferreting around in the middle of a blooming great big herd of communal dustbins, completely lost!

My French friend, Audrey, had told me about a wonderful potager that was owned by a man named Jean-Luc. “He plants vegetables for all seasons and sells the excess. You must go and look – his haricot verts are formidable at the moment!”

Eventually brow-beaten by her insistence, and slightly intrigued to find out what a formidable haricot vert looked like, I agreed to go. Actually I was going to take my husband, Jack, with me, but since his love for vegetables extends to a tin of Heinz baked beans and not much further, there seemed little point in me trying to persuade him.

Living in a remote part of France has countless charms, but one of its constant challenges is how difficult the local accent is to understand. Audrey had mentioned that the potager was close to the church. Well, I arrived in what I considered to be the right place, and could see the steeple close by, but nothing else that hinted at a vegetable patch – only dustbins. Refuse seemed to be a far cry from the promised greens. It seemed I’d misunderstood again.

Just as I was about to give it up as a bad job I spotted a rickety-looking gate stuck in the hedge beyond, ahah – there it was!

Feeling moderately intrepid and a little worried that the gate might collapse as I yanked it open, I cautiously stepped into the unknown. Audrey is usually understated about things and this was another example of her restraint. I’d entered a perfectly concealed garden stuffed full of vegetables. And it was huge.

In front of me masses of root crops arranged in orderly lines were bursting out of the soil. Some had ferny green topknots and others a purple twist – I knew what they would be. But there were another lot that were complete strangers, lumpy and warty, these chaps instantly spiked my interest.

Then I spotted the tomatoes. Actually it was hard to miss them, they looked like a forest. Every plant was supported by a neatly-cut stake and the whole plantation was sheltered from the hot sun by a netting canopy. I craned my neck to see beyond this dense crop – amazingly there was even more produce languishing in the hot sun, but I couldn’t distinguish what it might be from my vantage point.

Taking a couple more tentative steps forward, I saw a collection of remarkable buildings. Remarkable, because they appeared to have been constructed from a variety of old bits of wood, metal and plastic sheeting. The residents of the Calais “jongle” might consider them haphazard, but they looked strong enough to stand up to most of the elements.

So far the place seemed to be deserted, I really wasn’t quite sure what to do. Feeling somewhat self-conscious because I’d only met him once before, I squeaked a feeble, “Bonjour, Jean-Luc.” Nothing! I tried again, a little louder this time. This had the desired effect. The door of one of the sheds was flung open and out through a drape of old stripy bed sheet came monsieur, looking just as I remembered him.

A stout chap, he was wearing his well-used gardening kit, and the same baseball cap he’d worn last time I’d seen him. It was obviously a favourite and a very sensible choice of headwear for the scorching afternoon sun. Jean-Luc’s chubby face broke into a merry smile as he saw me and came over to perform the obligatory French greeting of one-too-many kisses. This left me just a little bit sticky on the cheeks. It was, after all, a hot day.

Jean-Luc got straight down to business. (He doesn’t speak a word of English so I’ll spare you the translation.) “So, Beth, what shall I get you?”

This stumped me somewhat because aside from the essential haricot verts, I didn’t have a mental shopping list prepared. “Well I’m not too sure. Do you have time to show me what you grow here?”

It seems I had said the right thing. Jean-Luc beamed, “But of course. Come with me – everything I grow here is beeo!”

As I was trying to work out his French version of bio, I felt a light touch on my ankle. I looked down to see a beautiful tabby-white cat, tail in the air, preparing to wind its way around my legs.

“This is Millie, I think she likes you.”

Immediately enchanted by this delicate creature I replied “Oh, Jean-Luc, she’s lovely, is she yours?”

He shrugged his burly shoulders indulgently. “She lives here and follows me everywhere – she is my gardening companion. Now come this way,” he said, smiling.

The next hour was spent in a leafy haven filled with bulbs and tubers, pods and fronds , beans and fruits. Deeply green peppers with their glossy red counterparts drooped heavily on their stems. Purple-black aubergines shone brightly, the white ones too – veritable stars in this galaxy of lustrous vegetables. Courgettes, in two colours – I’d never seen a white variety and I told him so. Quick as a flash one was removed for me to take home and try.

I stopped, my senses suddenly arrested by the pungent aromas of herbs. “Gosh, Jean-Luc, you grow herbs here as well?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied, puffing out his chest, “come and look.”

We walked down another perfectly kept, earth path to find an assortment of pots filled with astonishingly healthy aromatic plants. Seeing my enthusiasm, with a twinkle in his eye, Jean-Luc plucked a leaf off the closest herb and offered it to me. “Goût, goût!” (Taste, taste!) he insisted eagerly. This was perfect because although some of the herb names translate very easily such as Basil to Basilic and Parsely to Persil, I was lost without a trace when it came to Tarragon – Estragon and Chevil – Cerfeuil. I would be guided by taste instead.

The basil leaf I had been given zinged off my palate in a riot of fresh flavours. The rosemary had an intensity I’d never tasted before, and the parsley was as gentle as could be. As I crunched or sniffed my way through several offerings I felt as a sommelier might when sampling fine wines. Jean-Luc’s expression was a study of delight as I vainly sought adequate words to express my appreciation at my first herb garden tasting session. He nodded knowingly, “Yes,” he said, “they are all beeo!”

We ambled to another section, I was amazed by how well-kept it all was and commented that it must be very hard to maintain. His charming reply was simple. It was one we have heard so many times before from the locals. “It is my passion.”

Jean-Luc explained that he worked for the local apple producer. He grafted apple trees, an exacting skill I have admired in others but never attempted. He bought his vegetable plot 20 years before and had worked there every day since. Looking around at this magnificent expanse of produce I wasn’t surprised by his words. It was pristine.

Next we strolled amongst the forest of tomatoes; I’ve never seen so many varieties. There were Russian ones, Chinese beauties, and some enormous types that hung pendulously from their bushels, just waiting for the moment to provide gastronomic pleasure for some lucky diner. Jean-Luc walked ahead. Every now and again he would disappear between the lines. Then his head would pop up unexpectedly between leafy stems as he found yet another exotic type he’d experimented with.  

I became so wrapped up in this red and green world of assorted toms that, at one point, I lost him completely. I had the fright of my life when a hand full of tomato was thrust through a bushel right under my nose. “Voila!” Cried a muffled voice from behind a cluster of leaves. It seemed that Jean-Luc had found the Bavarian special he’d temporarily mislaid. That was the type he thought Jack would love. H’m…I wasn’t so sure, but nodded enthusiastically anyway. Meeting me at the end of the row he held out yet another for me to try.  

“This is a black tomato,” he said conspiratorially. Only it wasn’t.

“Oh, right. It looks very red to me.”

“Non! It is definitely black.”

“Ah, then perhaps it’s the name of the variety?” I asked hopefully.

“Non! Here is the same family but it is the red variety.” With that he produced another, which to my inexperienced eye looked exactly the same. There are times in life when it’s more sensible to concede the point rather than argue it, and this seemed to be one of them.

“Ah yes,” I replied, scrutinizing the identical twins with appropriate levels of appreciation, “now I see it. There is definitely black in this one.”

Jean-Luc’s face crinkled up into a joyous smile, “It’s marvellous isn’t it? And it tastes superb, you must try.”

Before I could refuse he whipped out his pruning knife and cut both tomatoes into segments. The fact that they were both the size of footballs didn’t seem to bother him at all. Nor did the fact that by now I’d consumed a barrel load of samples and my stomach was beginning to gurgle noisily. He would not be denied the opportunity to treat me to his delicacies. Ignoring my pathetic pleas of refusal he cried, “Goût, goût!”

Suffocating an accidental tiny belch I took a hunk of each and stuffed them in. To my surprise I found that he was absolutely right. They tasted completely different and were fruitily delicious. 

“Ooh,” I exclaimed.

“Oui,” he cried, “Different and beeo!” he chuckled, plunging a digit into the innards of his juicy black tom to demonstrate its natural succulence.

Back in the main part of the garden I asked if he kept any flowers.

“Just a few” was the reply. “Viens, viens,” (Come, come) he said, trotting off to another area. (This man spoke mainly in duplicate.) I followed him around the edge of a particularly boisterous hedge of haricot verts and there, under the backdrop of the village church, was a simply stunning collection of blooms.

“Oh my!” I gasped, “these are quite amazing.” Dahlias, roses, hibiscus and many others lit up the side of the potager like multi-coloured fireworks at night. They were in mint condition and looked simply gorgeous. But Jean-Luc wasn’t quite finished. I liked flowers? Then I must see more. 

We marched up and down several new rows of vegetables ignoring the fruits this time in favour of the exquisite blooms that produce such amazing results. It was a feast of intricate delicacy, why on earth hadn’t I appreciated such beauty before?

We had been mooching around for over an hour now and I felt that I really ought to let the poor man get on with his weeding. But Jean-Luc seemed to be perfectly happy to continue the tour. We inspected brawny young pumpkins scrumming-down like a rugby union front row amongst their spikey leaves. Baby cucumber sprouted in banana shapes, and a collection of brassicas the like of which I’d never seen before created a stunning colour contrast to the shiny greens. And not a bug in sight. I remarked on this and Jean-Luc gave me a knowing look, I knew what he was going to say.

“I use a special product.”

“Is it bio?”

“Yes!” was the emphatic reply. “Come into my shed and I will show you my things.” In any other circumstances I might have been somewhat disconcerted by this offer, but with Jean-Luc I had no fear, he only had eyes for flora.

Chatting a little louder now to drown the sound of my alarmingly gurgly stomach, we headed back past the ferny-topped carrots, alongside the pungent jungle of heavenly herbs and came to his collection of huts. It was then that I realised what truly extraordinary constructions they were.

Entering the first was like walking into Aladdin’s cave. Only this contained treasures of a different kind. There were seed sachets everywhere. Jean-Luc explained that he regularly rotated his crops and would soon be setting his winter seeds. I was absolutely fascinated by the adventurous selection he had. Aside from the seeds, he had fertilisers and other products – dozens of them, all of which had been made using natural ingredients only.

Amongst the bazaar of fascinating tools and gadgets I spied an old iron container. This was intriguing, I asked what it was. He tapped the top lovingly and opened a rusty door with a grating flourish so I could peep inside. “It is my fire. It keeps me and Millie warm in the winter.” This man was a gem.

We came out and walked into the potting shed next door. It was another gardener’s delight. Here, in a remarkably orderly space, he stored his potatoes and onions. Although my stomach was now telling me to surrender at the thought of more food I reminded myself why I was there. I did actually need some potatoes. I asked if I could buy some.

“But of course,” he replied grabbing a tuber. Fearful that he was going to chop it in half and give me a lump to chew on I put up my hand in refusal, “Oh it looks lovely, not now though thank you. Could I take three kilos please?”

Fortunately he had misread my alarm and proceeded to pile a number into a plastic bag. He picked up an ancient brass weight instrument and showed it to me. “This,” he said in reverent tones, “is my grandfather’s spring balance. It is nearly 100 years old, he used it to weigh his vegetables.

It is completely accurate and very valuable, but I will never sell this.” It was obviously a profoundly important possession for him. I nodded gravely, respectful of the moment.

He hung the plastic bag of spuds on the hook and nodded happily as the needle hovered just over the three kilo mark. He lobbed in another green-eyed nugget for good measure and placed the bag gently on the earth floor. I added to my order with onions and finally remembered to ask for some of his famed haricot verts. “Don’t worry, I knew you were coming so I prepared some for you.”  He pointed towards the awning of another shed and there lay a crate heaving with produce. Aside from the beans I hadn’t asked for any of it, but how could I refuse such wonderful quality veggies?

I thanked him very much and asked how much I owed. “6.50 euros,” was the reply. I stared at the vegetable mountain.

“But that can’t be right,” I stammered.

“Yes, it is a fair price,” he insisted, “Remember, this is my passion I do not grow my vegetables for profit.”

I tried to remonstrate with him but got nowhere at all. With a happy wag of his head he grabbed my crate and bags of goodies and carried them out. As we headed to my car he paused at the water butt which was abundant with very chubby tadpoles and pointed to the slipway he’d made for frogs. This man was certainly in touch with nature.

Finally my visit was at an end. With my car filled with the best legumes I had ever bought in my life, I bade goodbye to my new friend. As I started to drive off Jean-Luc, shouted, “Wait”. Wondering whether I’d left something behind I paused while he retrieved whatever it was.

Moments later he reappeared holding a jam jar. He opened the lid and thrust it into my hand together with a toothpick. “Goût, goût!” he insisted. Slightly apprehensive as to whether my bulging stomach could cope with another gastronomic onslaught, I dutifully harpooned a hunk of what appeared to be a chunk of cucumber in brine. Instantly my taste buds were assailed by a crazy combination of pickles and herbs. Delighted by the surprisingly delicious taste I chomped one lump, then took another, and asked what it was. “Courgette, garlic and onion and a mixture of my herbs. Can you believe that?”

“Ooh, courgette,” I replied, unable to resist yet another sample, “no I can’t, it’s wonderful.”

“Yes,” he nodded with a gleam in his eye, “the recipe comes from my grandfather and it is a secret! I normally sell it for four euros a jar but I wanted to give you this one. It is a cadeau. And remember, all my produce…” I just knew what he was going to say. “They’re beeo!” With that he disappeared back to his secret garden.

As a postscript to this story I can tell you that on my following visit to his potager, after collecting my order, Jean-Luc showed me a collection of freshly potted herbs. I cooed appropriately and he said, “I know you like herbs so I have prepared some for you.” I was absolutely thrilled.

“Oh Jean-Luc, that’s incredibly kind of you, thank you. And how much do I owe you?”

For a millisecond I detected the faintest expression of hurt, he replied, “Nothing, they are a cadeau!”

The Horse That Danced

I’ve always loved horses. I grew up with them and was first plonked on top of a solid, box-shaped Shetland at the tender age of three. Apparently I howled so loudly that I had to be removed before the pony decided to press her eject button. But that didn’t diminish my enduring love for these noble creatures. I rode horses and ponies of various dimensions every day – it didn’t matter to me what they were like. Well actually it did a bit. I had my favourite, my best friend.

I’ll never forget the day I watched my horse being born. I was ten years old and already late for school, but my mum allowed me those precious minutes to marvel at what literally unfolded before me. With relative ease a gangly foal appeared, still cocooned, but not for long. His mum performed a miraculous clean-up job and there he was. “That’s your young horse, Beth,” said my wonderful mum, “you’ll grow up together.” And we did. For the next ten years we were inseparable.

Many years, and what seems to be a lifetime later, my French friend Andrée and I were walking our dogs in the forest here in France. Knowing how I felt about horses she told me about an equestrian event that was coming up in a few days’ time. A serious car accident had forced me to give up riding but my fascination for these proud beasts has never diminished. I listened carefully to Andrée but, as usual, my scant knowledge of the French language let me down when it came to the detail. I gathered that it was an evening show of some kind that involved horses but that was about it. H’m interesting!

Andrée particularly wanted to go because her granddaughter would be involved and she thought I might like to see her ride. It was taking place in a little village about 20 kilometres from us and would I like to go with her. Of course I jumped at the chance. I double-checked with Jack, my husband to see if he would like to join us, but I needn’t have bothered. Unsurprisingly he reminded me of his dislike for anything that moves without the aid of an accelerator or gearbox. He concluded by informing me he’d rather chew on a bag of nails. That was that then. I left him in glorious solitude, well nearly. He had a couple of dogs sprawled over his feet, a cat on his lap, and looked completely content as he nursed his bottle of lager.

I was duly collected and we set off along a route that Andrée knew well. She said it was fairly quiet which proved to be a magnificent understatement. We meandered through the countryside that was mainly decorated with orchards or forest. Dumpy farmhouses nestled comfortably in their own domaines, peppered with vines, or the huge Blonde Aquitaine cattle and the occasional farm dog. The road was lined by plane trees in full leaf, shading the road with their graceful boughs, it was perfect French scenery. But quiet? Certainly that. I don’t remember any other vehicles on that road for the first 19 kilometres – perfect.

We reached the village in good time and approached a field that was stuffed full of parked cars, easily more than 200. “Gosh, what’s going on here?” I innocently asked my friend, barely able to believe that there were so many car owners in the district.

“It is the show of course. People travel a long way to see it.” Andrée had got me again.

There I was thinking it would be a minor affair, clearly I was quite wrong about that. Now, completely intrigued, I joined Andrée in the long trudge to the entrance.

As I grilled her for more information we joined the crowds and entered ‘Festiberique’, an Iberian-themed world that was filled with the sights, sounds and the scents of horses. They were everywhere. Oh, and a lama too – although that didn’t take part in the proceedings. Beer tents, barbeques, and stands that sold various goods, surrounded an arena that had grassy mounds for spectators on two sides and a marquee on another. It was not at all what I’d expected.

Before we settled down Andrée asked if I had eaten and, being the consummate team mum that she is, clucked disapprovingly when I replied “no”. Decision made, I had to have something before we settled down. We immediately headed for the food area and met several members of her family along the way, one of whom indulgently stuck a big plastic tray in my hand loaded with chips, merguez sausage and a great wodge of bread. I was good to go. 

We parked ourselves on a hillock and prepared to watch what the French term a Spectacle équestre, a show designed to celebrate and exhibit the athleticism of horses and their riders. And it really was.

Troupes of riders wearing magnificent Spanish flamenco costumes paraded before us, but it was not they who danced to the music that rang out from the speakers, it was their horses. It was an amazing demonstration of dressage as the animals performed intricate moves, wowing the crowds with their power and majesty. I was instantly in heaven.

Next came a series of what might be termed rodeo stunt displays. I was amazed by one rider and his horse in particular. Between them they created acrobatic movements that I’d seen on television, but never in real life. Using the saddle as a gymnast uses a vaulting horse, the rider sprang from one side of the animal to the other, touching down on the ground in rhythm to his cantering partner. He swung under the saddle, up again, then reached a standing position, posturing for the crowd as his steed continued to circle the arena at a steady canter. It was remarkable.

Then there was a completely different kind of demonstration. A horse and a human entered side-by-side, the man tiny in comparison to his fellow performer. There was no saddlery on this animal and, using the dressage whip as a prompt rather than correction tool, the man directed the horse through a series of extraordinarily complex movements. 

These required enormous strength and agility. There was hushed silence as we watched, spellbound by the display that unfolded before us, thrilled by what we saw. Their finale was equally impressive and particularly poignant when the horse lay on the ground gently cushioning his co-star. It was definitely a true partnership.

The mood abruptly changed. Circus music blared raucously out of the speakers as two gymnasts, and their dancing dogs, burst into the ring. I wasn’t quite sure which were the most agile, the dogs, which seemed to be made of elastic, or the man who managed quite extraordinary moves with his somewhat hefty female counterpart. Either way it was highly entertaining. Then came a donkey accompanied by a nun. I wasn’t quite sure what that was all about, but it certainly caused great hilarity and cheers from the crowd as the pair of them cavorted in an ungainly fashion across the ring.

Horses wearing hats and pulling traps appeared and charged pell-mell around in circles. One of the carriages was accompanied by a magnificent bay stallion ridden by a lady in flamenco dress. Why? I have no idea, but they were stunning - this was entertainment at its best.

Then a team of four horses burst in, driven by a man standing on the backs of two of them. As the crowd cheered and applauded I was reminded of the film, Ben Hur, and the great chariot race, how on earth did he manage to keep his balance on those grey racers? 

At this stage I was fairly breathless with excitement. It had all been so completely different to what I’d expected. Irritatingly I kept nudging Andrée, babbling questions which, good as gold, she indulgently answered whilst tutting over the occasional minor error a rider or horse might have made. Not me, I was thrilled to the core, and there was more to come.

Another horse entered the arena with its rider bearing fire brands. I don’t know of any creature that isn’t instinctively terrified of fire so I was astounded by how trusting the animal was as the rider performed a series of unimaginably difficult juggling acts on horseback. With flaring nostrils and proud gait the brave horse bore its dangerous cargo without flinching once. It was incredibly impressive.

I have always been fascinated by Lipizzaners. This is a breed of horse closely associated with the Spanish Riding School of Vienna, Austria, where they demonstrate the haute école or “high school” movements of classical dressage, including the highly-controlled, stylized jumps and other movements known as the “airs above the ground”. 

The horses at the Spanish Riding School are trained using traditional methods that date back hundreds of years, based on the principles of classical dressage.

I wasn’t familiar with the breed of horse that entertained us next, but this group struck a remarkable resemblance to the famous Lipizzaner. They were full of pizazz and flair. With tails carried high, arched necks and expressions of fierce pride they went through a series of movements that drew gasps of wonder and admiration from the crowd. Sometimes working as a team, their levels of synchronisation were precise, and measured. I stared in wonder at these amazing athletes. Were they enjoying themselves? They certainly seemed to be.

It was very dark now. The arena lights came down as the troupe made their exit to rapturous applause. For a moment it was pitch black – the audience began whispering expectantly.

Now there were movements in the centre of the sandy ménage, but I couldn’t make out what they were. An announcement was made; this seemed to be the star of the show. I looked around me and there was a sea of faces waiting with baited breath to see what was going to happen next. The evening had been a resounding success. I couldn’t possibly imagine anything that could top what we’d already seen.

The lights gradually came up, together with haunting music played by a lone harpist seated in the centre of the arena. The ethereal music threaded its way through the loudspeakers, enveloping the entranced audience. Andrée nudged me gently. With an expression of pride spreading across her face she whispered, “Now you will see Léna and her horse, Swany.”

A beautiful grey mare glided into the ring, ridden by a young woman in costume, who bore a striking resemblance to her grandmother. Her horse had no bridle, simply a ficelle, a string around its neck. What followed was a feat of horsemanship that so far had not been rivalled that night. Horse and rider flowed in perfect harmony to the harp music. 

Intricate dressage movements interchanged with explosive actions. The horse bucked, the horse kicked backwards, the horse high-stepped. Then the horse reared up and danced for the crowd. It was truly magical.

All too soon their stunning performance came to an end, but Lena had saved the best till last. Somehow in the darkness she had spotted her grandmother and other family members in the crowd. She and Swany performed a graceful bow directly in front of us and then they quietly lay down together as the music from the harp faded away. 

Part of me wanted to holler my applause and cry “Bravo!” Instead, like most of the others there that night, I silently mopped up a tear of emotion. It had been a brilliant exhibition from a horse and rider who had spent as long together as I had with my horse, Sam. They obviously shared an incredible bond.

Finally the spectacular ended and it was time to go home. We said our “au revoirs” to the various family members who had turned up to support Léna, and trudged back to our car. We chatted animatedly about the event as we retraced our steps along the deserted road. Me, bursting with thanks for the invitation, and admiration for the performers, especially Léna and Swany. Andrée was understated as usual but, I suspect, full of justifiable pride. They really were the true stars of the show.

Huh, and they say nothing happens in our little corner of France!

(I am extremely grateful to Léna, and also Fantastika: Justine Vegas and Pascale Scherer, for allowing me to use some their photos to show you the amazing partnership Léna shares with Swany.)

It’ll go up in Flames!

“Can I take my drone?” pleaded Jack, my husband, looking lovingly at his strange flying machine.

“Perhaps, but you’d better ask permission, some folks don’t like them at all,” I replied, instantly worried that he was going to start dive-bombing innocent revellers in his enthusiasm to capture the moment on film.

The question arose because of an annual event that was about to take place in our tiny village. A veritable dot on a landscape of French meadows and orchards, one is barely able to use up all fingers and toes when counting the population. But this weekend was going to be different, it was the Feu de la St Jean, (fire of St John) which attracts hordes!

So what on earth is the Feu de la St. Jean?

Some believe that the tradition was introduced to Europe by Celtic tribes around 3000 years ago. However, when Christianity became the official religion in France during the fifth century, pagan rites were shown the red card. They could not be allowed to continue. On the other hand, the French do like a good fire (a key feature of this event), so an artful compromise was required.  

The Church of Rome, realising it wasn’t going to stop the headstrong rural communities from lighting up once a year, came up with an ingenious decision. They moved the pagan Summer Solstice festivity to coincide with that of St John the Baptist. This tactic was particularly brilliant because the two festivals both carry the symbol of light. One celebrates the sun, the other celebrates the prophet, John the Baptist, who symbolically opened the door to the light by announcing the coming of Jesus of Nazareth. Voilà!

Traditionally, a bonfire is lit using wood gathered by the youngsters of the village. Less health and safety conscious in those days, one of the customary rites was for young, unmarried people to jump over the bonfire if they wanted to find their soul-mate before the end of the year. It was also a rite of passage and acceptance for younger teenagers, who then became officially accepted into the group of bachelors. Equally, it was a way to bless the harvest to come. So, all in all, there was quite a lot going on.

In a village like ours where life is modelled on the rhythm of seasons and the weather, the logic of revelling in the Feu de la Saint Jean makes perfect sense. The main organiser is our dog walking pal Joel, aka le prof. A master of delegation, he stage manages the process like the conductor of an orchestra, directing his team players with poise and determination.

Building a bonfire

Jack’s job was wood supply man, which quickly became an exercise in anger-management. He spent several days under supervision, arranging then re-arranging planks in a particular order until le prof was satisfied that they were aesthetically pleasing. This was extremely testing for my short-tempered husband who insisted that a plank was a plank and why should it matter if one was prettier than the other. Fortunately, our language differences lent a hand which saved le prof from the niceties of his more acerbic remarks. Joel completely ignored Jack’s twitterings, doggedly pointing at timbers to be rejected and others to be subbed which were easier on the eye. Finally he was satisfied.

The next job was witch-construction. (I’m still somewhat lost about the legend regarding sorceresses, but I suspect it has something to do with banishing the evil spirits. Absolute bonus if that’s the case, one feels.) Le prof and the witch-construction crew did a marvellous job in building five corkers, but there was one worry. Joel was concerned about witch number three and her skirt of ribbons. I eventually persuaded him that it really didn’t matter that her colourful floaty skirt caught the breeze every now and again, revealing all, nevertheless he insisted on stapling a few strips to her wooden knees in the interests of modesty.

Final preparations

The day of the momentous event finally arrived. I was on table decorations, which brought with it highs and lows. The outstanding high was to be helped by my little mate Matteo. Son of a neighbour, and no doubt soon to become the cause of heart breaks amongst many a mademoiselle, he’s a stalwart companion when it comes to floral art.

The afternoon was spent gathering and arranging various blooms but we soon realised that we were undersupplied. This was a quandary. Suddenly Matteo had an excellent idea – why not snip a few from the village rose borders? No-one would notice and we could complete the job in double quick time. Well done that boy!

We crept out with our pannier and secateurs and began stealthily ferreting around the roses. Snipping here and there, we persuaded ourselves that we were simply tidying things up, and actually, performing a great service to the village. Unfortunately our logic wasn’t shared by everyone. On our return to the workstation we were met by a gentleman who is almost completely round and rather red in the face. This was a worry – we’d been rumbled by the village municipal plant man.

Monsieur looked disapprovingly at our posy-filled pannier, and started talking very fast and animatedly. Matteo stared, owl-eyed, the picture of innocence (which I should add he does awfully well) which left me, l'étranger, as perpetrator of the crime. Once again our language barrier lent a hand which enabled me to plead some level of blamelessness, backed up with a barrage of vraiment désolés (very sorrys). This eventually stopped monsieur, who was no doubt trying to understand what I was babbling.

Then there was a pause.

We watched nervously as he puffed out his chest, which caused him to look alarmingly like an inflatable beach ball. Aside from a potential pop, we had no idea what was going to happen next – this man was unpredictable at best.

Whatever I’d said seemed to hit the spot because, to our relief, he dissolved into a wobbling mass of giggles and started slapping his thighs hysterically. With tears of mirth cascading between his bristles he pointed at our efforts, declared they were "insuffisant" and encouraged us to pick more. There are times when my mauling of the French language does come in handy. That said, my comprehension level is never likely to be capable of unravelling the intricacies of the local sense of humour.

Mightily relieved that we weren’t going to banished we finished our job and I looked in on the catering team. Slaving away, making short work of heaps of salad mixings and couscous, the ladies were a dream-team to behold. I said my “à bientôts” and returned home to a happy husband. Le prof thought his idea to bring the drone was a great one!

Sangria with a twist

Despite rushing through my animal chores I was pushed for time. In my haste to get ready I tugged on the nearest set of clothes, accidentally choosing a pair of very tight shoes in the process. No matter, I thought, we wouldn’t be involved in any disco dancing that’s for sure.

When we arrived, throngs of party-goers were already pouring in – set on being thoroughly pagan for the night. Most adults made a bee-line for the extremely un-French sangria apéritif, while their children marvelled at the sorcières (witches) including the one with the skirt nailed to her knees. We had invited four friends to join us. They had never been before and were intrigued to learn what all the fuss was about. The French couple arrived promptly followed a little while later by our Italian friends, Melita and Carlo. They are usually fashionably late and always slightly flustered.

Poor Melita had just returned from work and was more frazzled than usual. She is a fruit sorter in a local apple farm and a big order had come in late on that day. Everyone had to work overtime to deal with it which meant that Melita was hot, tired and clearly very thirsty. She knocked back the first glass of sangria in double quick time, smacked her lips with satisfaction and declared it to be non-alcoholic. Before I could make the obvious correction, she followed up with two more in rapid succession.

The evening got underway in fine spirits, mostly aided by the sangria, which we were later told was laced with l’eau de vie, a highly-alcoholic colourless fruit brandy.

A sausage situation

We sat down at the long trestle tables not a moment too soon so far as my feet were concerned. Taking a moment to acquaint ourselves with our fellow diners and admire the floral decorations, we tucked into our starter of melon and ham. This was accompanied by chunks of bread, periodically lobbed in our general direction by Jean-Pierre, the local boulanger. He was followed by Jacques, who owns a local vineyard. Fortunately his idea of service is rather more elegant. Label-less bottles filled with red and rose wines where positioned at strategic intervals. The moment the level dropped below halfway the bottle would be whisked away and replaced with another. Everything was going to plan nicely until…

Our party atmosphere was abruptly interrupted by the electronic screeching sounds of feedback from the microphone. It was le prof and he had an announcement. Everybody listens when le prof has something to say. He delivered his message to the hushed audience like a seasoned master of ceremonies.

It seems that there had been a sausage glitch. Despite clouds of smoke coming from the coals, the barbecue was not hot enough, and our main course was still raw. Nobody wants to eat uncooked, chewy Toulousian specials so remedial action was called for and, as usual, le prof had everything under control.

The stage was lit up, music filled the salle des fête and the planned cabaret was brought forward a course. It was brilliant. A young troupe of actors entertained us royally with their pagan high jinks and superb acting, causing raucous laughter and wild applause as they cavorted about the stage. But as quickly as it began, it had to come to an end. The sausages were ready.

Yet more wine arrived, supplied once again by Jacques, who was had now taken on a rosy hue. This was followed rapidly by new supplies of bread, hurled from afar by Jean-Pierre, who looked as though it was time for someone else to take over. Called to order once more, we dutifully traipsed over to the buffet table to be served by the couscous-building team and actors-turned-waiters. The whole process ran like a well-oiled machine.

Most of us fell on our melange of Toulouse and red, spicy merguez sausages with gusto but there was one exception in our party. Jack is a die-hard English sausage lover and loftily considers the French version to be a disgraceful substitute. Worse still for the poor dear, he was saddled with a generous spoonful of couscous, which he assures me looks like maggots and probably tastes the same. With a doleful expression he bravely shovelled his meat mountain to one side, waded through his hill of mixed salad and chewed on his doorstep of bread. That done, he announced his intention to fire up the drone – which was most concerning.

UFO!

It was getting dark now but I could still make out the incongruous shape of his flying machine as it hovered ethereally in the gathering gloom. Luckily his test-flight had gone largely unnoticed and was uneventful. He returned quickly, flushed with enthusiasm. It had worked like clockwork and was ready to capture the main event on film.

Soon after we were heralded once more by le prof. He battered his scratchy microphone and announced that it was time for us to witness the Feux de St Jean.

This required movement. I got up and immediately sat down again with a wince. To my horror I saw that my feet looked like bloaters and had swollen considerably inside my tiny shoes. Not a pretty sight at all. Jack stared quizzically at me as I staggered towards him.

“What’s wrong with you? Have you had too much to drink?”

“Not at all! It’s these shoes, they’re agony.”

“Oh right, what bad luck. Well you can’t take them off here, the gravel will shred your feet. Go and prop yourself up again that tree, while I start filming from the drone, you won’t be in the way there.”

Ignoring his supportive advice I tottered in step with Melita, who was decidedly glassy-eyed, walking as well as me and beside herself with excitement.

Pagan drums filled the air with their rhythmic beats, spotlit trees surrounding the bonfires cast crazy shadows on the ground – then the first flames curled their way around each of the five sorcières.

The music switched dramatically with split second timing as fireworks exploded around the pyres. Children gasped with excitement, thrilled by the scenes that were unfolding before them. The fires kindled and gathered intensity, somehow in time to the strange primitive music. We stared in wonder as the sorcières, one by one, were banished from the village in a cloud of smoke. Suddenly Melita grabbed my sleeve.

“UFO!” she gasped, pop-eyed, pointing towards the sky.

Obviously a universally understood term, I followed the direction of her trembling digit and realised what it was. Jack’s machine had taken to the skies again and was flying dangerously close to the burning effigies. Surely it would catch fire from there!

There wasn’t enough night left to try and explain the intricacies of drones to my sangria-soaked friend. Instead I placated her by explaining that it was only Jack. Oddly enough she accepted my response without comment.

Spectacularly spectacular

By now the dark sky was filled with the flames of our five burning bonfires. The music changed again, this time there was a melodic feel to the tempo. Our troupe of actors burst onto the scene, grabbing spectators one after the other until they formed a dancing ring around the raging furnace. I tried my best to hide, but it was no good, someone grasped my hand and dragged me and my fat toes to join the solstice revellers. I staggered and stumbled around, trying to forget that I was in screaming agony as I joined in the cheers and hollas and delighted laughter of the crowd.

Fortunately the dancing didn’t last long. It was interrupted by a tremendous jet of blinding-white light that shot up from the earth. The fireworks had begun. Once again children and adults alike gasped in wonder and the thrilling light show. Purple explosions vied with red and orange sparkles, each cartwheeling across the skies in an extraordinarily spectacular way. Different formations had different sounds, some whizzing, others sputtering into life and most ending with a booming explosion. It was an amazing finale to fantastic evening.

Most of us hung around awhile after, absorbing the celebratory atmosphere. The youngsters returned to the salle des fête to prepare for the disco, the very thought of which caused my toes to surrender completely. Instead we said our goodbyes to our friends. They were overjoyed with their first attendance at this incredibly well-run event and pledged to come again next year.

Propped up by Jack, we began walking back to the car, turning one last time to glimpse the burning embers of the bonfires. I stopped quickly, nudging Jack to look properly. There, clear as anything, was an ancient grand-mère cheering raucously, encouraging a young grandchild to jump over the bonfire to the anguished sounds of “Oh, la, la” probably coming from the non-pagan mum. It was then that I realised Melita probably wasn’t the only one who thought the sangria apéritif was non-alcoholic.

It was another wonderfully memorable evening in our little corner of France thanks to our friends and in particular le prof - a conductor and master of ceremonies extraordinaire.

Postscript

Here are some extracts from the drone footage.

https://1drv.ms/v/s!AjKaKBSR9uRyhHxbVyrXqqv_tS5e