We have been en fete for five solid days and much of five liquid nights. All of us. The whole village. Whether we wanted to be or not.
We've had five Festivals de Bandido, in which the bulls are run at speed past the bar, the hairdressers and Carrefour, as the youngsters race to catch them by the horns and/or tail and pull them back. We've also had five Toro-Piscine events. Lunchtimes and evenings, we've had a dozen or more gigs, including four Grands Bals, one not-so-grand Bal and a Bal Musette. Plus the petanque tournaments, the Concours de Belote and the cycling.
It is, as they say, a packed programme, and it has proven appeal to the young people not only of St Quentin but of the Uzege as a whole. They flock to the gigs in their hundreds, because each event - however notable in itself - is also important for the excuse it provides to drink.
The drink of choice is pastis. On the tariff at the Bar du Marche, it is available in three forms: pastis foetus for 1.50, pastis baby for 3.0 and pastis bouteille for 60 euros. The latter price seems to include water and a bucket of ice, and is the default purchase.
The procedure is as follows: 1. drink the bottle of pastis as quickly as possible; and 2. soak all around you with the water and the ice. It looks anarchic, and it is, but it's also great fun - especially when the temperature is in the mid-30s.
There are some in the village who are not fans. I understand this, because there is no doubt that the fete takes its toll on participants and spectators alike. To hear the indefatiguable MoMo look forward to an early night is to understand just how exhausting the fete can be.
But we're lucky. We live a couple of hundred metres up the hill, so we can dip in and out. Others who live closer to the epicentre have no choice.
They see, hear and smell it all.
Smell? True. The fete smells. Obviously, of horse shit and bullshit during and after the abrivado bandido each evening. But also, most of the time, of aniseed-flavoured urine. Pastis and water pass through one extremely quickly, and even a commune as well-equipped as St Quentin cannot provide sufficient public conveniences for the hundreds of full bladders at every gig. So the council takes a sensible and pragmatic approach. Let tout le monde fait pipi where they wish, and then clean it up immediately afterwards.
This is not an aspiration, as it would be from an English council. This is a commitment. Within 10 minutes of the end of the gig, the commune's sprayers are out in the streets around the venue, rigorously disinfecting and removing all traces of the offending liquids.
It's the very model of municipal efficiency. And it has an additional benefit for those who partied not wisely but too well and too long.
The very faint, and curiously attractive, smell of disinfectant which lingers on subsequent mornings is a welcome reminder, even for those with no recollection whatsoever, of what a great time they had at the fete votive this year.
Bonne fete.
Today's listening: Bob Dylan, winding up the summer tour at Boston's House of Blues (on Lansdowne Street by Fenway Park). Check out, especially, All Along the Watchtower. This is the arrangement which first prompted the Dylan's Erasure debate.
We've had five Festivals de Bandido, in which the bulls are run at speed past the bar, the hairdressers and Carrefour, as the youngsters race to catch them by the horns and/or tail and pull them back. We've also had five Toro-Piscine events. Lunchtimes and evenings, we've had a dozen or more gigs, including four Grands Bals, one not-so-grand Bal and a Bal Musette. Plus the petanque tournaments, the Concours de Belote and the cycling.
It is, as they say, a packed programme, and it has proven appeal to the young people not only of St Quentin but of the Uzege as a whole. They flock to the gigs in their hundreds, because each event - however notable in itself - is also important for the excuse it provides to drink.
The drink of choice is pastis. On the tariff at the Bar du Marche, it is available in three forms: pastis foetus for 1.50, pastis baby for 3.0 and pastis bouteille for 60 euros. The latter price seems to include water and a bucket of ice, and is the default purchase.
The procedure is as follows: 1. drink the bottle of pastis as quickly as possible; and 2. soak all around you with the water and the ice. It looks anarchic, and it is, but it's also great fun - especially when the temperature is in the mid-30s.
There are some in the village who are not fans. I understand this, because there is no doubt that the fete takes its toll on participants and spectators alike. To hear the indefatiguable MoMo look forward to an early night is to understand just how exhausting the fete can be.
But we're lucky. We live a couple of hundred metres up the hill, so we can dip in and out. Others who live closer to the epicentre have no choice.
They see, hear and smell it all.
Smell? True. The fete smells. Obviously, of horse shit and bullshit during and after the abrivado bandido each evening. But also, most of the time, of aniseed-flavoured urine. Pastis and water pass through one extremely quickly, and even a commune as well-equipped as St Quentin cannot provide sufficient public conveniences for the hundreds of full bladders at every gig. So the council takes a sensible and pragmatic approach. Let tout le monde fait pipi where they wish, and then clean it up immediately afterwards.
This is not an aspiration, as it would be from an English council. This is a commitment. Within 10 minutes of the end of the gig, the commune's sprayers are out in the streets around the venue, rigorously disinfecting and removing all traces of the offending liquids.
It's the very model of municipal efficiency. And it has an additional benefit for those who partied not wisely but too well and too long.
The very faint, and curiously attractive, smell of disinfectant which lingers on subsequent mornings is a welcome reminder, even for those with no recollection whatsoever, of what a great time they had at the fete votive this year.
Bonne fete.
Today's listening: Bob Dylan, winding up the summer tour at Boston's House of Blues (on Lansdowne Street by Fenway Park). Check out, especially, All Along the Watchtower. This is the arrangement which first prompted the Dylan's Erasure debate.
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