🎶But oh oh those su-ummer ni-ights🎶

However hard we try with our French Language  c.d.s, and in our conversation classes, we still go into panic mode when people speak to us in French   We have had several halting conversations with Babeth next door.   Not  her husband, Paul, however – evidently a man of few words even in his native tongue.   But as the old adage  goes, “Actions speak louder than words,” and Babeth regularly calls round with vegetables from Paul’s allotment (above) and fresh trout caught by Paul on his fishing trips.   I have tried to express how welcome this makes us immigrants feel.

Segueing nicely into other welcoming people, then stand up for the people of Puissalicon.   A group of us Brits attended their “Nuit des Vins”  recently   I know, wine again, but that is the raison d’être of this area.   The anticipation is palpable as some vineyards begin their harvest and the purpose of many of these festivals is to sell the wines of the local domains.   But they dress it up nicely with tapas and wonderful music and dancing.   Everyone gets up to Line Dance and wiggle attractively and smiles replace words in the atmosphere of goodwill.

I don’t remember why we all had to have our arms in the air but we did it previously at the brasucade in Alignan  du Vent.   And the line dancing …..

Oh and the people-watching  ….

And on these non health and safety bonfires were cooked quail, sausages, pork, mussels, frites and there were salads and cheese …. and villagers and visitors and deep joy.

…. and, for your interest only, wine at 2 euros a glass.

And the pièce de resistance as we say in this country was the appearance of the village mascot.    Most villages have one.      Roujan has the hedgehog   A huge representation of which is carried out at festivals   I am not sure what the huge blue animal was but it was welcomed with the passion and fervour normally  reserved for pop stars :

I promise we never tire of visiting all the fêtes and festivals.    I know, dear bloggees, you think  because wine is involved, but more truthfully it is because the enthusiasm and hard work of the organisers and the total support of the villagers illustrates, for me, the essential goodness of most human kind.  And there is a certain naïveté:  chairs and tables are old and rickety;  they take place on boule courts, car parks, in town squares;  there is no charge to attend:  every age group is represented and children play and dance around the adults until late in the evening.

I pondered on such matters whilst listening to lunch time jazz in a small bar, as part of the St Thibéry Jazz festival.   Such hard work is put into preparing and presenting  this three day festival.   They even produce a special wine for the duration: Cap Jazz.   Delicious.

The Jazz was mellow with a very gifted double bass player

Everyone received a free jazz hat.     Bless.

…. and more people were watched

Sometimes when Gazzie is at his golf, I meet up with friends for coffee or lunch.   I met Tamara at Creative Writing Class and despite being the age of my daughter, we bonded as we struggled  to express ourselves creatively,  She  lives up in the hills near Clermont l’Hérault and she suggested we meet for lunch at Villeneuvette, where Gaz and I have never been.

Villeneuvette is a small village made up of a group of buildings initially erected in the 17th century to create a royal clothmaking factory, originally for Louis XIV,  and to provide accommodation for its workers. Apart from a hotel and restaurant, the buildings are now restricted to residential use, many for holiday purposes.   Population excluding visitors?  65

Recently widowed,  Tamara still spends a lot of her year in France and we spent a very interesting  few hours laying the groundwork for what I hope will be a lasting friendship, whilst dining royally at La Source.

French idiosyncrasies:      Vive la différence,  of course.   Here are three:

Last evening we were at a dinner party with French, British (just us two) and Zimbabweans.   One of the guests was Max a two year old French boy.  Unbeknownst to Gary, Max was standing by his chair looking at him with adoration.   Gaz suddenly pulled his arm back to illustrate something and smacked Max full in the face with his elbow.   With the dignity of a very dignified person, Max climbed onto Mamma’s lap, put two fingers in his mouth and just stared at his attacker, with a look of benevolent puzzlement.    Or possibly concussion.  I haven’t checked.

One of the things about Britain I miss is politeness taken to ludicrous levels.   So for instance, I know I’m carrying some extra weight, but lovely Brits would hopefully just say, “You look well”.   Here, I  go in a dress shop and a stick insect sidles up to me, points imperiously at a rack of six bell tents in various dark colours and says, “Les grandes tailles”       big sizes).   Yesterday took the biscuit (handily in one way.   Very fattening biscuits)   I picked out a nice red dress the size of a barrage balloon and was carrying it towards the changing rooms, when a young sales person ran up to me “Non, non” says she.   “No good for you.   You have the big boobies.” And as if to emphasise the point in front of all the other customers, she poked my big boobies and took the dress away.

I’d rather have the girls at Zara sniggering behind their hands as I try to squeeze into one of their jackets.

I was told that the French, in general, hate speed cameras.    As happens in many parts of France, a camera placed in one of the country roads close by,  was knocked over, set fire to and left, within three days of its erection.   And two weeks later, there it lies:

And then, maybe, it was just those few salespeople and that dear young child, and one person with speed camera phobia.   And the fact is  that we are all, universally, unique.