An invitation from the Mayor

We received an invitation in the letterbox to a New Year's function in the village hall.

We arrived a bit early and watched as the room filled with about 300 locals, the vast majority senior citizens. The tables were set modestly, with small plastic plates and cups.

I got talking to the man next to me. I learnt he was the local Curé. He told me cakes and drinks would be served later.

I was chuffed when Jean Claude, our neighbour and councillor, brought the lady mayor over and introduced us to her.

When proceedings got underway, Madam le Maire, flanked by councillors, spoke about the achievements of 2016 and civic goals for 2017.

These included the construction of tennis courts and accompanying facilities. Cliona was pleased to hear that.

There would also be an upgrading of security at the primary school, in line with the state of emergency still in force throughout France. I was amazed at how a heightened sense of national vigilance had so permeated to the grass roots.

Then the President of the Commune took the microphone. He spoke for too long and the audience got restless. A long-haired man in his sixties, dressed shabbily in a green tracksuit and sitting three places down the table, looked over at me with exasperation. He made an eating gesture.

Finally, the formalities were over and big bowls of Spanish clementines were brought out.

Then cakes, two kinds; a flat, almond-flavoured Gateau Pithiviers and a Gateau Couronne des rois, appropriately served with a cardboard crown on top.

Bottles of bubbles were placed on the tables. This cheered up my scruffy mate.

The bubbles were good. There was a Blanquette de Limoux, a bone-dry fizzy white, and a Brittany cider, Val de Rance Brut, fruity but not cloyingly sweet.

The priest made an early exit and his place was taken by an elderly farmer, wearing a cap. He was very affable and keen to find out how an Aussie had ended up in Castelmoron.  He told me where he lived, in a small hamlet about five kilometres away, next to a plum orchard.

He said the Lot et Garonne was famous for producing prunes.

I said yep, if you liked prunes, you were in the right place. A bloke at the end of the table overheard and laughed, but not the farmer.

A swarthy woman, who I took to be from Mauritius who had been sitting next to the priest, joined the conversation.  Upon learning Cliona didn't speak much French, she informed us that elementary French lessons were available at the Town Hall. I said we would definitely take this up.

The friendly farmer then bid us farewell. As he stood up to leave, the Mauritan woman stood too. They left together.

Outside, the air temperature was minus something. But we had a warm feeling, leaving the Salle des Fetes. We were pleased we had gone to our first village function, and made some new aquaintances.