Back home In England, you think of the school fete, the church fete , or the Red Cross fete. You know the sort of thing, cake stalls, tombolas and Mrs Jones’s class dancing round the maypole. Here the word applies to all sorts of feasts, festivals and partied but in this part of the world, this is the season of the village fete, much bigger events to their English counterparts. Originally, they were big parties held in the summer to welcome back the children on their holidays from work in Paris and other big towns. This still happens, relatives try to come back for the fete last year I met an elderly lady who had left the village 65 years ago as a GI bride. Every ten years or so she returns for the fete.
So what goes on? Each village has its own way of doing things, they don’t change much from year to year as it makes it easier to organise. Last night we travelled about 30km to a village for a Celtic night. This village (population 417) hosted an event with 3 music groups from Ireland and France, pipers from Scotland and Galicia, a barbeque and bar for well over 1000 people in a giant tent. (That was the first of several events including a large vide grenier and a huge meal to round it off)
Our village is a bit smaller; there are no more than 60 people, about 35 in the village, the rest in neighbouring farms. This includes several octo and nonagenarians and a handful of children. This morning we organise a 10km and 15km run. This is not for the faint hearted, it includes lots of climb and some quite rough terrain. This year the competitors won’t have to worry about the mud like last year, we’re in the middle of a heat wave and the temperature will be very high. My husband is running, but I’ve chickened out this year, though I have run in previous years.
The afternoon is gentler, though just as fiercely contested; a pentanque competition.
In the evening is the main event, a bal for up to 800 people. On the menu, melon with a slug of Muscat, charcuterie , pain de champagne, green salad, our famous poules a la broche, (chicken on a spit), cheese, fruit tarte, lots of vin rouge, oh and coffee with eau de vie to round it off. The whole lot accompanied by dancing to a top class accordeoniste, Sylvie Pulles with her band.
This is completely organised by the local people. The chickens are local. They arrive from neighbouring farms on Saturday morning.... still squawking. (Stop reading now, if you’re squeamish)
Everybody helps. The chickens are efficiently dispatched by a middle aged couple. An elderly man plunges them into a bath of hot water. Then they’re plucked , feathers flying everywhere, and then draw. All the edible innards are then washed and set aside for making into charcuterie. The chickens are trussed, with strips of lard tied to their breasts, seasoned with salt and garlic and are ready for cooking over a wood fire next day. About 250 chickens are prepared like this! The charcuterie comes from a local firm; this has to be cut up, as do the melons, the bread and the flan. The lettuce has to be washed. Tables collected from the main village in the commune and set up. ... I could go on. There’s a lot of work and for most of my neighbours the day job doesn’t stop for the fete. The cows still have to be milked.
My problem as a diabetic is just how to bolus for this very large meal strung out over 2-3hours. I’ll let you know tomorrow how I got on!
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