Bullocks

 

Two days ago.   The moon was  reluctant to leave as the rising sun illuminated our neighbour’s house.

Yesterday.    The sun struggles through the clouds and for us a welcome respite from the heat.    But not too much of a respite, please.

We went to Vendres Plage, for another beach day, to celebrate Hugh and Bassie’s fourteenth wedding anniversary.   There is already a “ fin de siècle” feel about the beaches, fewer children, fewer people altogether.   On Saturday we go to the last Brasucade in Puisallicon and the last Sizzling Sausage evening at the Sarabande vineyard on Sunday.

Then comes the collecting of the grapes and the pressing of the olives to which you, dear bloggees, will hopefully be invited through these pages.

Bull  fighting is still legal in France and practised in some towns in the south, such as Nîmes and Arles in Provence.   Neither of us has ever attended any bull-related events, so we decided we would go to the Bull Run in Tourbes last Sunday.   I have to say there was some trepidation on my part, for, although not the world’s most avid animal lover, I do abhor all forms of cruelty.

 

However, though I’m sure the horses and the four young bullocks would have preferred to be chomping away merrily in a field somewhere, they appeared to be in fine fettle as they ran 200 yards up the main road and back again. Not so much a nod to bullfighting, but in acknowledgement of the lives of the  “gardians” (french spelling)   who tend the black bulls and white horses of the Camargue Wetlands.   (Remember we visited there earlier in the year bloggees?).

And after this savage beauty, of course, wine and food and gypsy guitarists:

In most villages at every festival it is traditional for  some of the men to dress as women.   I have no idea why.   Perhaps they just like it.   In Roujan the men have a very sophisticated outfit of white skirts, blue tops, white socks and shoes.

These are the Minettes of Tourbes;

 

 

And as August sizzles out we have been stocking up with logs for our landlady, and making sure the house is as lovely as it was when we arrived in December.

For, bloggees, we are moving.  In November we move away from this little jewel of a house, with its beautiful  views across the countryside, to an ancient, though modernised house in the centre of the village of Gabian,   We can walk to the baker and a little grocery shop and, lord help us, a bar and restaurant.   This   mediaeval village lies in a valley, defined by the River Thongue with its roman bridge and allotment-filled banks, and we will be looking at old tiles and stone, instead of the changing panoply of the countryside of Roujan.   So, a very different living space, but I hope we’ll be as content there as we have been in Debbi’s house.

We shall miss our lovely neighbours Babeth and Paul,  their lovely gifts and our very hesitant conversations.  Today’s bounty:

As I prepare to push”publish”, here is the sun this morning.   20 degrees at 07.40.