A Horseman Riding By - 13th August

Check the legs and you'll spot the bull

We used to sit in the apartment in Miami, unable to open the balcony door because the new balconies were being built. Our windows were covered in blue plastic and the doors were firmly locked, and anyway we knew that outside, the temperature was in the 80’s and there was nowhere to go even if we did go out. We used to dream of being able to sit in our own garden or go for a drive in the country, but that seemed like an impossibility. And now here we are; we have spent the day in the garden and this evening we went for what we like to call “a trundle”. It was just going to be a short drive out into the country, nothing special, just a look at the vineyards and a chance to watch the evening light on the old villages.

We drove out through St Drezery which is our neighbouring village about two miles up the road, and quickly realised that something was going on. Most of the local populace was out in the streets, the red iron gates were up and the parking area was full of horse boxes. Clearly a combination of bulls and horses was imminent, but what and where. We were still dressed in our gardening clothes, dirty, unwashed and dishevelled, and I just knew that if we were to stop and see what was happening, the first person I would bump into would be Jean’s ex wife who lives in the village with her new husband. I can hear my male readers saying “so what” and the female readers nodding understandingly, knowing this is not the image that a woman wants to present to her predecessor.

Fortunately, we found parking on the edge of the village and it was hugely rewarding, because no sooner than we had found ourselves a safe vantage point on the other side of a deep ditch, a sound like cannon fire exploded, and the next moment, a group of horseman astride the beautiful Camargue horses came down the road with two bulls penned between them. I edged as close to the road as I dared with my camera, and with a great clattering of hooves and shouts of encouragement, the horsemen cantered past me.

I am quite sure that if we had planned to see this spectacle, we would have battled to find parking and I would have been in a spin in case my total lack of wardrobe for such occasions was a problem. Instead, we stuck the car into the first gap that we saw, and had prime position as the horsemen came out of town on their way to the farm where the bulls and horses would rest up for the night.

It is the “Fete Votive” of St Drezery this week and there will be a few days of boules contests, bull running and general dancing, drinking and late night enjoyment, and unless we are totally tied up with the internet and the phone connection tomorrow we will try and see a bit of it.

Because we couldn’t back-track through the village we continued up and around Montaud, checking out a likely looking plant nursery, and pausing to see if the blackberries which were looking plump and ready were any good. Sadly I have to report that French blackberries in this region are nothing like the delicious berries of England. They were rather tasteless and dry and I realised that if they were being left on the bushes by a populace who will gather and turn everything into something deliciously worth eating, then there was little point in expending time and energy in picking them. It looks like another job for “Bonne Maman” that well known provider of the best jams in France.

Meantime, we will go out and water the garden, sit for a while on our level slab of rock and watch the bats dive bomb each other between the trees, and then sleep soundly after yet another rewarding and busy day.