Bon weekend from a party in rural France

Bonjour,

I hope that you and yours are well.

Here in my bit of France, it’s time for the annual village party to celebrate the harvest – called a ‘ducasse,’ an old Flemish word for a shindig, which this year coincides with my birthday! This is the biggest event of the year in the village, not my birthday – the party!

A big tent has been erected at the back of the town hall. Long tables and benches have been laid out in neat rows, and somehow 420 people will manage to squeeze onto the seats for dinner. Though there are only 152 people in the village, socialites from all around arrive for this special event! Craggy faced farmers stand at the front where there’s a makeshift bar and bottles of good wine cost just a few euros. Old ladies always sit on the front tables so they don’t have to climb over other people to make their escape after the DJ has played ‘their music’ – the obligatory sounds of the late, great Johnny Hallyday (the French Elvis), and Le Madison, a line dancing song that’s been popular in France for some 60 years! Kids run and slide on their knees on the wooden dance platform, and teenagers practice dance moves – ready for their more modern music and a long night ahead.

The evening starts with lots of time to meet and greet everyone. Dinner is served around 10pm to loud applause and cheers as volunteers bring in huge bowls of steaming mussels, spit roasted chicken and heaps of crispy French fries, followed by a selection of local cheeses including Maroilles, one of the smelliest fromages ever invented, with piquant pickles and chunks of baguette, and finally a selection of petit four cakes, eclairs and madeleines, tiny lemon meringue tarts and crunchy merveilleux – sweet meringue balloons filled with cream.

Around midnight, the DJ – a local man my neighbour Jean-Claude has nicknamed ‘Docteur Jekyll et Mister Hyde‘ as he transforms from a grumpy plumber by day to an ebullient performer behind the turn table, will stride through the tent, to the ear-splitting strains of “I’m too sexy for my shirt” (he’s not!), the Mayor will make a long speech (it’s the law for mayors to talk for hours in France), followed by a stampede to the dance floor when Docteur Jekyll lets the music loose.

When the sun comes up the next morning, weary party-goers will make their way home, startling birds in the hedges, and cows in the fields as they stumble past. And I will be another year older!

Bisous from my little of corner of France, and bon weekend from a party in rural France,
Janine
Editor

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