The dance of fecundity.

The sun has made an appearance for a second morning in a row. Can it be that after two weeks of solid rain and chill temperartures summer is at last arriving? Wilf seems to think so. He has sprawled himself out on the grass to soak up the early morning warmth . After our walk to the light industrial park we stopped off at the fishmongers for some prawns for a risotto. There were six salmon heads staring unblinkingly at me on the counter. Who in their right mind would buy a fish head? At the greengrocers they were selling flat peaches - unsure what they were used for they were left well alone.

We didn't think that there was much more that could surprise us about life in our sleepy little village. That is until this morning. Madame Bay, who is still very taken with the new locum : - "Il est vachement bandant!" - arrived with a spring in her step and a smile on her lips. She was collecting for the 'antique' ie 'bric a brac' stall for Saturdays saint day festivities. I gladly scouted around for some pieces that she could take away with her. Then she dropped the bombshell. 'Had we made reservations for the dinner on Saturday night?'.

It seems that every year the two mutually loathing village committees hold a 'feast' after the yard sale and at the end of the religious ceremonies. At six in the evening the statue of the local saint is paraded around the village ( yes, that's right past all eight houses ) to scare away evil spirits. Then after the hard work is done everyone from the village and the outlying farms ( a grand total of 67 including yours truly and 'the font' ) repairs to the village hall for a night of festivating. At midnight, which by my reckoning is at least five and a half hours after the armagnac and floc have been opened there is a 'feu de la St.Jean'.

I caught a look of horror on ' the fonts' face as the description of a 'feu de la St.Jean' came tumbling out - "Ces feux, tres anciens,sont investis de vertus magiques : ils purifient et protegent contre les sorcieres, les maladies, les puces ... le village se reunissent pour des danses et des sauts fecondants par-dessus le feu". In other words the fire is invested with magical properties which purify and protect against sorcerers, illness, insects ... the village all gathers together for a fertility dance and hop around the fire.

The sight of the slightest tremble on the fonts lower lip told me that we were both sharing the same tear inducing vision of a chiffoned Madame Bay dancing and hopping around the village bonfire in a solstace frenzied druidic fertility dance. A French Boadicea. What have we done? Where have we come to? Would the young locum be there? Would the knee problem disappear as suddenly as it arrived? Welcome to the world of John Updike.

Wilf is not bothered by any of this- he's dreaming of fish heads and the fact that there maybe a place that's even better than the butchers.