Harvest festival with the french touch

The day dawned hot and cloudless. By afternoon the temperature was sure to be in the high 30s. My wife Anne and I donned light article of clothing and straw hats, applied much protective sun cream and set off.

It was the vendange of Bobo, a provincial farmer friend who could not afford mechanised pick. We started in the early afternoon and our chap pickers were a jolly bunch.

Everyone in the vicinity was there, from kid to grandparents.

I started down a line of vines antonym a tiny, bent, toothless old lady of about 80, but could not keep up with her, even with my brand new secateurs.

So, after a while, I decided not to try. When we had filled our pail we learnt to shout "panier" and an old man (also bent and toothless) would appear from buttocks the vines, a large handbasket on his back.

We would empty our pail into it and he would merrily trot off with the heavy load, voidance it into the tractor trailer at the underside of the field.

As eve approached, Anne remained fit and able, but my enthusiasm was waning in directly proportion to my increasing backache.

I was delighted when, just as the sun set, the crop was completed and we were invited to the celebratory feast.

It was held in a large barn. The light consisted of some bare light bulbs strung across rafters and a couple of review lights of the kind usually used when repairing farm machinery.

There were trestle tables end to end, and plastic chairs for about 40. Good solid crockery, glasses, and cutlery of different varieties ranged into the distance.

Hanging from beams were several very large hams, with attendant flies. On the dirt floor, toddlers were having a rare old time chasing a little terrier who, in turn, was chasing chickens; not being a farm dog he had not been trained to leave them alone.

The meal began with hearty soup, went on to paté, then a choice of main dishes - pork, lamb, duck, chicken - with a large variety of vegetables and salads.

Then cheeses, and plum tart and ice cream... With every course our host produced a different alcoholic drink, not just wines (white, red and rosé, and sweet wines with the pudding), but the famous eau de vie, literally translated as "water of life".

With each drink, glasses were clinked and raised to the toast of "Santé" (Health). The meal ended after some three hours with liqueurs and coffee.

As we were about to leave, to be driven home (in a happy state) by his son, Bobo took us outside to show us how the pears get into a bottle of Poire William.

He pointed out trees which appeared to be growing bottles - the receptacles were tied to branches of pear trees, carefully upturned to avoid access by rain.

Inside each, a tiny pear was growing. He then presented us with several bags of vegetables and fruit, and six large tins of the special paté we had so admired during the meal.

He explained that he not only made his own paté but he also tinned it. We were overcome by his generosity and we later devoured all six tins.

As an inadequate attempt at reciprocation, we invited Bobo and his wife for a barbecue, together with Michel, our farmer neighbour, and Monique, his wife.

It was a beautiful day for an outdoor meal, except for a rather strong wind. Bobo added colour to our party by bringing along Granddad, complete with beret.

He turned out to have been the little panier man at the vendange. Our guests had obviously spruced themselves up for the uncommon experience of eating with the foreigners.

Michel had glued his hair down with some strongly scented French equivalent of Brylcreem, exaggerating the flatness of his abnormally flat head. It was as if he had done irreparable damage from physical contact with a low beam.

His dead-straight pure white parting (his scalp seldom saw the sun as he always wore a cap) in his jet black hair gave him an old-fashioned, sepia print look.

Monique was in her best frock and had obviously had a perm for the occasion, resulting in much frizz.

Bobo seemed half strangled because he wore a tie, which he was clearly relieved to remove at my invitation.

Mrs Bobo (we never learnt her first name), a robust, jolly lady, turned up in high heels and a floral frock.

This was to be the day I discovered that a fixed-stone barbecue out in the open can be uncontrollable if the wind is in the wrong direction, especially if one is cooking something fatty such as merguez sausages.

I had just started when a strong gust of wind whipped up the charcoal and ignited the fat dripping through the grill. A sheet of flames leapt at me, instantly setting fire to all the food.

There was an immediate strong smell of singed hair as I lost my eyebrows and the hair on my forearms while fighting to extinguish the conflagration - amid great hilarity from the spectators.

I succeeded in dousing the flames with a convenient tankard of beer. Amazingly, everything was still edible, although the merguez sausages were now the size of chipolatas.

The incident certainly got rid of any inhibitions that the visitors might have had and the wine flowed faster. The star turn of the day, was Granddad, who wore his beret throughout.

We had seated him at the head of the table where he could hold court, which he did with increasing volume and deepening dialect sufficient to make him almost unintelligible by half way through the meal.

He also spoke with his mouth full, as well as open, so it became very evident that he had absolutely no teeth, false or real. But he was very amusing and reminisced late into a balmy evening.

A successful end to another vendange season.