Return of the killer accordion

By and large avoiding the commercial frenzy of Christmas – excepting the odd unseemly tustle over the last battery powered quad in Leclerc – most folk here save their energy for New Years Eve. Blindfolded, this is the one night you could guess where in France you are by the sound of the entertainment on offer. Because once you’re in the sticks, it’s guaranteed to be some rosy nosed bugger looking like he’s repeatedly trying to stuff a jack in the box back from whence it came. Monsieur l’Accordion is in the house.

Feeling you should enter into the spirit of things, you leave the comfort of the fireside and the prospect of undiluted Jools Holland and head off to the local Salle des fetes. Stupidly, you turn up at the announced time – ie before almost everyone else – and until rescued by the mayor’s secretary, have to indulge in idle chat with the guy who runs the local duck farm, hoping that enough pastis will destroy your olfactory senses.

By 10.00pm, everyone’s there. What was a cold, echoing cavern has turned into a sauna, albeit one full of your neighbours doing their best to shout over each other and attired in variations of their Sunday finery – including glitter sandals and faux fur for madame and freshly laundered beret and plaid shirt for monsieur. Fab. The dancing is underway, and the kids have taken refuge under the trestle tables for an impromptu Beyblade tournament.

You’re starving, and by II.00 ready to eat the paper table cloths. At last the soup arrives, but as soon as it’s finished, the band strikes up again. And this is the pattern right through the night, with each course separated from the next by half an hours dancing, interrupted only by a swiftly downed glass of red and the occasional yelp of some half asleep child tumbling from it’s chair.

By 3.30 in the morning there’s still 2 more pudding courses to go and you find your stamina is no match for locals twice your age. Outside it’s cold and clear and you stomp home along an empty lane, the ringing in your ears slowly drifting away. Your feet hurt, your brain’s melted from 7 hours of unbroken French and it’s been a long, hot, night. And you’ve loved every minute.