What can I tell you? I recently changed jobs and so, as tradition demands, I arrived on my last day at work in my Morris Bells with cake, determined, as ever, to not go quietly. I capered and wheeled through head office with my hankies spinning and my boots thumping, bowing a final exit…then had to wait patiently for the lift to arrive outside in the corridor.
They are not gentle bells, and in my small office on the construction site I had to remain very still while on the phone. I was determined that they should not leave my knees until the end of the day, again, as determined by long, ancient and venerable tradition.
The following weekend I was enjoying the delights of the local village fete with Celine and our wee man Jean. They don’t do things by halves here. They closed the main road through the town square for pretty much the entire weekend. There was a huge number of people having a massive sit down repas, (lunch, no-one walks around eating burgers and the like round these parts!) a vintage vehicle display, decorated bicycles, a boot sale and a stage. The music kept our daughter awake till 2am, and it’s a good two miles away. Nevermind, any reason to lie in the hammock in the garden and stare up at the Milky Way is a good reason I’d say.
Don’t tell Evangeline, but I found her Christmas present on one stall, and I haggled too. There were regular market traders here as well and one that dealt solely in goat’s cheese. He sold me a platter of apero cheeses decorated in multicoloured herbs. At lunch, much later, these went down a treat with everyone. The cheesemaker was local too, and not expensive, so I think we will be seeing his wares on our table again soon. Cheese with chilli, cheese with saffron, cheese with peppers, wonderful.
Some of the vintage tractors were not much bigger than sit-and-ride lawnmowers, but I liked the fact that they were such striking colours. Their plumage ranged from bright orange to a fierce green. The vintage cars, though more refined, were also very colourful. There were military vehicles and veteran fire engines, an opportunity for men to cosplay as American soldiers, even though they looked more Dad’s Army than Kelly’s Heroes it added to the sense of occasion. On the church someone had strung an effigy of a paratrooper dangling from the tower by his chute. WWII lives long in the memory here…
The one thing that was missing was traditional dancing. But my bells are here in France now, sitting silent in their bag. I have heard there is traditional Breton dancing in the North West, but that is a long way from the Loire. Perhaps I should put out a notice on a local Facebook page? It would be a shame if the next time my bells were ringing, it was because I was changing jobs again…
14thcenturypoet 