Summer is in full swing.
We meet with friends for a barbeque and with the hot afternoon breeze blowing across the valley, laze in the shade and plan where to go Saturday night.
Our commune is having its big fête. But last year's was disappointing and the mood is to go elsewhere. There's also the tomato festival in Marmande, but that seems too far. So we plump for a rock and roll band in the covered market square at Mas d'Agenais.
The evening starts slowly - empty tables and no-one dancing except for a plump middle-aged French lady in a beige skirt who happily keeps going (on her own) for the whole evening. The English, somewhat self-consciously, begin to shuffle into the space in front of the band and bob up and down for a bit, but as the night progresses it's the French with their elegant ceroc who show us how it should be done.
Sunday we hope to have more of the same in our local village square, but the music is heavy metal - no one's dancing (not even head-bangers) and the disco that follows is French teeny bop. So we watch the fireworks and somewhat reluctantly leave the young ones to the night.
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