There is always something going on in Montréjeau. Today it was the much publicised Marché à l’Ancienne. Drum majorettes, classic cars and working horses were promised, followed by a meal in the town’s Salle de Fête. Register at the tourist office, the poster said. “What is it all about?”, we asked. “C’est sympa”, said the receptionist. Duly informed, we signed up.

It was all a bit confusing on the day, as Monday is market day in Montréjeau anyway. However, today the normal population was swelled by hundreds, if not thousands, of visitors. All the usual fruit and veg stands were there, along with the handbags, shoes, livestock (poultry, live trout and rabbits), clothes, garden plants, cheese, hot pizza and roast chicken … Demonstrations of traditional crafts like chair-strawing and wool-spinning were attracting sizable groups of on-lookers, and a large crowd of children were gathered around the knife-grinder, apparently hoping that the old man might liven up the proceedings with the loss of one or two fingers! Today, we also had a “native American” (probably native of Toulouse, she said cynically …) chanting and doing some sort of tribal rain dance. He looked very imposing with his feather headdress and bone breast plate, but the colourful craftwork he was peddling looked to have originated in Peru rather than the North American plains.

Keen to get away from the crowds, JR and I wandered down Rue de Barry to see if there was anything going on at the old flower market. Instead we were among the first to see the start of the parade. Having found an agreeably empty stretch of pavement, we were in a prime spot for some good photos. The classic cars, such as they were, were followed by a disorganised group of butter-fingered young baton-twirlers. Each apparently accompanied by their own private entourage of parents and siblings.

Then we had a couple of ox carts, some donkeys, a shepherdess leading four sheep, and a goat herd with three or four young goats … all hastened along by some dashing whip-cracking horsemen representing the Guides
à Cheval de Luchon.

Earlier, as we had left the house, I had commented on a distinct smell of diesel exhaust that seemed to have mysteriously accumulated in our hallway. Now it became clear where the fumes had come from. After the horsemen of Luchon came an impressive convoy of vintage tractors (yes, that really is a Porsche) and other farm vehicles. Historically interesting though they may have been, the accompanying stink was both asphixiating and stomach-turning. So much for the cleaner, greener days of yore!

The Salle de Fête is enormous. Tables had been laid for about 600 people, and band instruments were set up on stage. My heart sank at the idea of having to test my French against all the background noise. As the room began to fill up, JR and I looked around for some sympathetic folk to try our conversation skills on. We duly picked out a friendly-looking couple sitting with one other friend at the end of an otherwise empty table. What happened next is nothing short of a miracle.

We introduced ourselves and they politely asked a little about our background, where we had lived in the UK, what brought us to France, how long we had been here … and where we were living now. It turned out that, of all the tables we could have picked, we had ended up sitting next to the owners of number 20 Rue St. Barthélémy - our next door neighbours!

We couldn’t possibly have known. The house has been empty for years and the owners, Guy and Marie-Rose, actually live a few kilometres away in Tourreilles. They were utterly charming, patiently repeating and re-phrasing anything we didn’t understand, and occasionally correcting our French. We were joined by Lucién (or “Lulu”, as Marie-Rose called him) who, equally patiently, took great trouble to explain French rugby club hierarchy to John.

The four course meal included an aperitif, red or rosé wine and a killer shot of eau de vie to finish. It was about 4pm by the time we left and, exhausted by a combination of marathon French conversation and alcohol, we needed a doze.

Unfortunately, I had completely forgotten our electrician, who had promised to call a week earlier. He appeared at 7pm. My conversation skills had, by now, completely evaporated, leaving me burbling incomprehensibly around reuniting the two electricity supplies and getting rid of one of the meters. He explained that he was just about to go on holiday, but kindly sent two of his lads round the following morning to do a quick temporary fix that allowed us to remove the last of the partitions separating the two flats. All in all, a good day!