A Summer In Gascony

by Martin Calder

  In 1856, the British built the first golf course in continental Europe just outside Pau on the Plaine de Billère, a well-drained stretch of land next to the river with a view of the old town gates and the Pyrenees as a backdrop. The course was a full 18-holer, and for the nineteenth hole they built a comfortable bay-windowed clubhouse, to accommodate their collection of portraits and silver trophies. The British in Pau liked their games: they also built a race track, a polo field, a cricket pitch, tennis courts and a casino.

  FESTIVAL WEEK

  THE BIGGEST DATE IN THE LOCAL CALENDAR WAS APPROACHING: 15 August, feast day of la Sainte Marie de l’Assomption, the patron saint of Boulogne-sur-Gesse, when the town held its annual fête, temporarily transforming the old bastide. The fête went on for a whole week, peaking with a firework display and a banda concert. The festivities embraced the entire canton, including Péguilhan, too small to hold its own fête.

  Posters appeared weeks before in Boulogne-sur-Gesse and in the surrounding villages. We picked up a programme from the Mairie in Péguilhan. The list of events was typed out rather unevenly on one side of a sheet of A4 paper; I hope nothing gets lost in translation:

  FESTIVALS OF BOULOGNE-SUR-GESSE

  GRAND FESTIVAL OF CARNIVAL ACTIVITIES

  A WARM WELCOME AWAITS YOU

  Saturday 11th August

  2pm BOULES COMPETITION IN PAIRS at the Boulodrome (500 francs + trophies + guaranteed fixtures)

  4pm GOOSE RACE – BETTING (Place de la Mairie)

  10pm BALL-DISCO with band: HIGH FREQUENCY

  Sunday 12th August

  8.30am FISHING COMPETITION AT THE LAKE (200 francs in prizes)

  8.30pm COUNTRY MEAL (50 francs)

  Monday 13th August

  3pm SKITTLES COMPETITION (numerous prizes)

  4pm BOULES COMPETITION IN TEAMS OF THREE (1000 francs + trophies + guaranteed fixtures)

  Tuesday 14th August

  9.30pm TORCHLIGHT PROCESSION WITH PIPE BAND

  Wednesday 15th August

  6am FANFARE AWAKENING

  10am MASS – Church of Our Lady of the Assumption

  12 noon GREASY POLE

  3pm PROCESSION OF CARNIVAL FLOATS, BANDAS, MAJORETTES

  7pm BANDA FESTIVAL

  9pm SENSATIONAL FIREWORK DISPLAY launched over THE LAKE sponsored by LACROIX INDUSTRIES. The best pyro-musical display in the Southwest!

  Thursday 16th August

  3pm CHILDREN’S GAMES

  10pm ACCORDION BALL. TREASURES OF THE ACCORDION with the orchestra of ALAIN MISICHINI, world champion accordionist

  Friday 17th August

  ALL DAY AT THE TOWN HALL:

  EXHIBITION OF OLD POSTCARDS (Canton of Boulogne)

  BEARS OF THE PYRENEES and VARIOUS

  EXHIBITION OF POSTAGE STAMPS

  EXHIBITION OF PAINTING (local painter)

  3pm CONCERT AT THE RETIREMENT HOME

  Celebrate and live life to the full!

  The goose race on Saturday afternoon was hilarious. The sight of startled palmipeds running in a confused gaggle around the town square was definitely the funniest thing I saw all summer.

  In the morning, barriers were set up to mark out the circuit, one complete lap of the Place de la Mairie. At 4 o’clock sharp, the race began. The geese were brought out of a pen and herded towards the starting line. They were wearing stylish red satin sashes like neckerchiefs and numbered collars for identification. The referee called out Prêts! Partez! and fired his starting pistol. Bang! And they’re off! Well, almost. Frightened by the noise, the geese started running, then slowed to a waddle, then began to disperse. They looked at the crowd with indignation; some cackled and one or two even hissed angrily. A couple of geese were having none of it and they started heading back the wrong way. A man came running up, waving a baton with a red sash tied to the end. He managed to encourage all the geese to put on a final spurt for the finish line, where they were rewarded with small heaps of corn.

  The owner of the winning goose, a portly, unshaven farmer wearing blue overalls and a beret, rushed in and lovingly picked up his bird. With a beaming grin, he proudly held it aloft for all to see. The startled bird waved its webbed feet in the air; the onlookers cheered, applauded and whistled. I don’t know if the goose appreciated being the centre of such noisy attention.

  The betting system was quite informal but seemed to be taken seriously, and at the end of the race I noticed small wads of 100 franc notes changing hands discreetly.

  The original purpose of goose racing was to tone the muscles in the animals’ thighs, which improved the flavour. Nowadays, geese are raced just for sport.

  On Wednesday, as the high point of the festival approached, we all drove down to Boulogne-sur-Gesse. We met a route barée – road closed – sign on the approach road and had to park and walk.

  The streets were thronged with people, who must have come in from every village, hamlet and farm for many kilometres around. The festoyeurs were out to enjoy themselves to the maximum. Whole families had turned out. Some children were wearing fancy dress, while older people disported themselves in their best clothes.

  We heard the carnival procession before we saw it. No sooner had we sat down at the last two empty tables in front of the Café Bar Hôtel du Parc than we felt the thump-thump through the ground of the banda starting up round the corner of the square. Women dancers led the procession, dressed in long, elaborate white costumes with bright sleeves and rainbow headdresses.

  The dancers were followed by the first marching banda, Los Novillos Banda, the resident banda of Boulogne-sur-Gesse, belting out a homage to the Gypsy Kings on brass and percussion. Their name was painted in bright red letters on their instruments. The musicians, both men and women, were dressed in white shirts, black trousers, red bandannas around their necks and straw hats. The drums thumped – the heaviest were pushed along on a trolley – the trumpets and trombones hooted, the cymbals crashed, the tuba boomed from over the shoulder of a big man at the back, and every now and then a man with a circular hunting horn gave a good long blast to keep the noise level up.

  The carnival had a Spanish feel about it. The local festivals in Gascony are run by Spanish gypsies and by the descendants of Republicans who fled across the border after their defeat in the Spanish Civil War, fought for the French Resistance during the German Occupation, and remained in Gascony after the war.

  The first float came round the corner, representing Les Trois Mousquetaires. One of the mousquetaires waved his sword threateningly at the onlookers, then put it back in its scabbard and doffed his plumed hat, as if to make peace with everyone again. The float was pulled by an old orange tractor, driven by a man with a bushy moustache, an over-large floppy beret and round glasses. He looked like a comedy Gascon farmer, as the French say sorti d’un livre, straight out of a story book.

  The next float was a giant goose, about five metres tall, lolling precariously as it moved around the square. The giant figure wore a bright red sash around its neck, and goslings and eggs were arranged at its feet. The thousands of feathers on the geese were made of crêpe paper, so realistic the work must have taken hundreds of hours. Children dressed as peasants sat on the front of the float, wearing hats too big for them, looking as if they were wondering how they got there.

  A small boy carrying a purple-and-white banner led the Boulogne majorettes, dressed in purple-and-white uniforms, marching more or less in time as they twirled their batons. A car drove behind them with loudspeakers fixed to the roof blaring out festival music.

  The procession of bandas continued, each with its own distinctive costume. The floats rolled by, each with a different theme. A group of middle-aged men in drag marched past, dressed as majorettes. They were rustic farmer types with lived-in faces, and looked ridiculous in their blue-and-white costumes with glitter wigs and frilly bloomers. They sang in unison, ‘Olé, olé, olé, olé…’

  Tall, upright figures of bulls, about five metres high, walked through the carni
val on their hind legs. They were resplendent in toreador costumes of shining blue-and-crimson velvet, decorated with glittering gold braid. The men inside the giant puppets peeped through holes in the bulls’ bellies and operated levers to move the long, dangling front legs. Their height was intimidating, but they leant down to pat children’s heads with their big front hooves.

  The carnival queen was on the last float of the procession. She was poised elegantly inside a magnificent open seashell. The shell was a work of art, covered in brightly coloured crêpe paper in white, yellow, gold and sea green. The queen wore a shiny turquoise sequined dress, shimmering in the sunlight, and a white sash bearing her name, La Belle Jeanneton. At her feet were sheaves of wheat and giant gold coins. The link between the seashell, the wheat and the coins wasn’t obvious until the crier on the front of the float called out to the crowd: ‘Look at La Belle Jeanneton: she is a hundred times more beautiful than the day is long. Look at La Belle Jeanneton: when she brushes her hair, golden wheat falls from her locks in bushels. Look at La Belle Jeanneton: when she washes her hands, golden Spanish pieces of eight fall from her fingers by the dozen. Look at La Belle Jeanneton: so beautiful she was held prisoner in golden chains by the monster of the deep, until a prince came to rescue her.’ La Belle Jeanneton smiled a fixed smile and waved a white-gloved hand, failing to perform any miracles, as the float moved steadily around the square. What very Gascon measures of beauty: wheat and money!

  The people on the floats threw handfuls of confetti over the crowd. On one, a man wielded a confetti bazooka. He was wearing wraparound dark glasses to look mean, but was really enjoying himself. He stuffed handfuls of confetti into the long steel tube, packed it down with a ramrod, took aim and fired an explosive cloud over the onlookers. I took a direct hit from the bazooka: the confetti went down inside my T-shirt and fell out of my shorts. Children came around selling bags of confetti to throw back at the floats; you could take your pick from a blue, pink or green mix.

  The noises of the different bandas, the music from the loudspeakers, the rumble of the tractor engines, and the shouts and cheers of the crowd drowned each other out in a deafening din that filled the square.

  Just when we thought the carnival had finished, the first dancers came round the corner again and the whole procession made a second lap of the town. The comedy farmer with the over-large beret was carrying a beer when he appeared on the second lap. He raised his glass to the onlookers and took a gulp, leaving froth on his moustache.

  Two laps were not enough: the procession made four circuits of the town before splitting into breakaway groups and returning to the cover of the Salle Polyvalente. The participants had spent so many, many hours making their costumes and floats, they wanted to be sure everyone got a good look. If the procession had done a few more laps of the town I don’t think anyone would have minded, everyone was in such high spirits. By the time the procession had finished the town was carpeted with confetti.

  The food stalls round the outside of the square and along the side streets sold savoury and sweet festival foods. They were painted in garish colours: flamingo pink, peacock blue, canary yellow and acid green.

  The menu at the savoury food stall La Croquandise was classic southwest fare: frîtes, frîtes-magret, merguez, brochette, ventrèche and jambon-épaule. The sweet stall was called Le Festival du Sucre. It sold real fairground food: barbe à papa, pommes d’amour, churros, chi chi, beignets, gaufres and glaces. We tried some churros, long curly fingers of piped waffle batter, fried in front of us, dipped in sugar and served in a cornet, about a dozen at a time.

  The drinks tent, La Bodéga, was doing a fast trade in jacqueline, a local punch made with white wine, grenadine syrup and lemonade. It was cheap, at five francs a go, and was ladled out into plastic glasses, with chunks of fruit floating on top.

  In the shooting gallery, Tir aux Canards, tin ducks moved on a conveyor belt in front of the back wall painted with a lake scene. A sign promised a win at every turn, à tous les coups on gagne, so I decided to have a go. I hit some ducks, winning a small orange furry toy that neither Anja nor I particularly wanted, so we gave it to a nearby child.

  The children’s version of the shooting gallery, Pêche aux Canards, was a fishing game, where small plastic ducks bobbed along a moving stream of water and children had to pick them out with miniature fishing rods to win a prize. In Gascony, ducks – real, tin or plastic – didn’t stand a chance!

  Lucky-dip machines offered punters the chance to swivel the handles of the small crane to grab prizes from inside the big glass boxes. In one box the prizes were all soft toys. In the other they were all women’s knickers. Knickers as prizes in a fairground lucky dip? It just didn’t seem right. If a man succeeded in grabbing a pair, did he give them to his sweetheart? Here you are darling – some nice pants I won for you at the fairground! And if a woman won them, supposing she grabbed the wrong colour or the wrong size, could she ask to exchange them? Best not to speculate, we thought.

  Traditional fairground rides were set up in the open square in front of the post office: waltzers, dodgems and a small carousel for children, La Féerie Enfantine, painted in the brightest colours and covered with flashing bulbs.

  As dusk approached the lights of the town came on. Boulogne-sur-Gesse had put on the full display of a Gascon town en fête. Illuminated stars, crescent moons and comets hung on wires suspended between the buildings. Garlands of coloured lanterns were draped across the square, twinkling in the darkness.

  Beneath the arches of the market hall, the bandas tuned up to perform a concert, each in turn. The musicians swayed in time to the cheerful rhythm of their instruments. The bandas had a real oompah-oompah sound. Gascon castanets, known as tricanetas, added a Spanish accent to the music. The bandas played some favourite and familiar tunes: La Bamba, Faire la Fête, Viva la Fiesta, La Macarena, La Cucaracha…

  In front of the musicians, revellers danced. Women and girls twirled in time to the music, wearing scarlet and yellow flowers coquettishly placed in their glossy black hair. Eager young men danced energetically, jutting out their elbows and lifting their feet. Older men did a soft-shoe shuffle by the sidelines, including the old man with the orange corduroy slippers, which he had kept on for the fête. We recognised him by his stoop and his slow movements before we noticed his footwear. Couples took to the floor as the evening went on. The music was infectious, so Anja and I joined in. We didn’t dance in the same way as the locals, but nobody minded. As the evening livened up and the jacqueline flowed, men raised their glasses in drunken salutes, women grabbed their skirts as they danced, and finally all the bandas played together, working themselves up for a spirited rendition of When the Saints Come Marching In.

  Shortly before nine o’clock in the evening, the mayor walked importantly down the steps of the Mairie from the offices above. Monsieur le Maire was in casual wear for the evening, but nonetheless wearing his blue, white and red sash, to distinguish his office. Pausing on the bottom step, he held up his microphone and pushed a button to switch it on. A loudspeaker system was permanently in place on the buildings around the square for the civic authorities to address the people. Puffing out his chest, the mayor announced that it was now time to go down to the lake to see the firework display. He made his proclamation as long-winded as possible.

  ‘Oyez, oyez, bonnes gens, Mesdames et Messieurs, chers Boulonnais…’

  His voice was distorted as it crackled through the loudspeakers and echoed around the buildings, getting lost in the hubbub of people who were having too much fun to listen to him.

  The festival goers made their way down the hill. The lake that the Boulonnais were so proud of was really a very large duck pond. We assembled on the shore, much to the surprise of some nearby ducks who had bedded down for the night. I could see figures with torches moving about in the dark on the opposite side, getting the fireworks ready. There were trees near the bank. When the fireworks go up, I thought, they’ll crash straight into t
he trees, but this obstacle didn’t seem to bother the local pyrotechnicians. We waited for a few minutes, then suddenly loud music started and fireworks shot into the sky. The crowd gasped as one firework after another whooshed and exploded, colours cascading into the night. The reflections in the water added to the drama. Children sat on grownups’ shoulders, ooohing and aaahing, clapping their hands with excitement and approval.

  When the fireworks were over, people started to make their way back up the hill to the town. Paul and Florence had gone off by themselves. Anja and I walked slowly back. In town, we stood under the arcade to wait for the others. Anja was wearing a long, black linen summer dress, tapered at the waist. An evening chill brushed against us as the raw night air of the countryside drifted in. We warmed ourselves with a slow kiss in the shadow of the arches. Some merry locals shouted words of encouragement, but we took no notice.

  Boulogne-sur-Gesse had done itself proud. The festival was honest, good-natured fun. For country people, surrounded day after day by fields and woods and dull sounds, the festival was an exuberant expression of their need to be part of a happy crowd and for spontaneous explosions of colour and noise.

  LA GUINGUETTE

  ON SATURDAY NIGHTS WHEN THERE WAS NO FÊTE WE went to a nightclub called La Guinguette. It was basically a shed in a field, named after an old-fashioned dance hall, part in the open air. To this day I couldn’t say where it was, because we went in the dark, came back in the dark, and I never did the driving. On our way, if we were lucky, we managed to tune the car radio into La Voix d’Armagnac FM, broadcasting en direct from Gabarret, to get us in the party mood.

  We normally arrived at La Guinguette at about ten in the evening. Parked cars lined the lane, so we had to park some distance away. There was no charge at the door and the bar sold only bottled beer. Inside, music boomed out from speakers attached to the roof beams, while clubbers jiggled about in the cramped room. By the early hours of the morning the inebriated and the tired stood outside, sleeping upright against the wooden walls of the building.