Just Above Sunset
June 27, 2004: As seen by others... Vive La Vraie France!
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Just Above Sunset
June 27, 2004: As seen by others... Vive La Vraie France!
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La France profonde … Vive La Vraie France! Copyright © 2004 - SD Chicago
Used with permission Reproduction or redistribution forbidden without the written consent of the copyright holder The Transhumance festival in … I'm not going to mention the name of the
village, because I don't want to do to it what Peter Mayle did to Menerbes - although it is already a tourist magnet,
anyway. People who have enough initiative to Google the reference and discover where it is, and get there at the right
time - well, God bless 'em for their interest.
This
is the village, and this is the banner announcing the annual Fête de la Transhumance, held each Pentecôte Monday when
the shepherds move their flocks up into the (cooler) mountains for summer pasture.
The
festival began with a mass at the village church. A procession carried
a statue of Saint Eloi, covered in gold leaf, on a stretcher-like affair into the church. Alas, I didn't get a photo
of that at all. But the festival really began to get underway with this team of 30 packhorses drawing a wagon decorated
with flowers. The challenge was to circle the village three times without the horses becoming churlish or overturning
the wagon. They succeeded.
The sheep arrived the next day, a veritable river of sheep, which dutifully made their three trips
around the village with the help of the sheepdogs. [Editor’s note: Where
there are sheep there will be goats.]
And
some of the children were beautiful, as you'll see in the next few photos. The little boy is probably asked to play
a cherub in every church pageant.
Comme les Arlesiennes -
the woman all dressed in old provençal costumes and had a wonderful time. And the Camargue, with its wild horses and cowboys, is not all that far away.
There
was a marching band sent in from Tarascon (the "Réveil Tarasconnais, established in 1923"!) that was the single worst
band I have ever heard in my life. Admittedly, playing these horns without keys would be a tricky matter of embouchure.
Still, I had to walk away to keep from laughing (in the nicest possible, and altogether affectionate way, I hasten to add).
Someone had set up wine and other refreshments for the band outside the church. (Well, this was France, of course).
The band stopped for a rest after the first tour around the village - but still had two tours to go. I could
hear the officious bandleader, rather filled with self-importance, hollering frantically that if this crew started drinking, he'd never
get them moving again.
I didn't see
any barbe à papa (daddy's beard) (cotton candy) around, but there, was as always, the carrousel. This is France.
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This issue updated and published on...
Paris readers add nine hours....
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