SSSBLOG: La Fete des Bergers

It is 9 p.m. and I am exhausted. We are leaving for Italy tomorrow early, and we still have stuff to do (and when I say “we” I mostly mean Suzie, since I’m sitting here at the keyboard).

We had a memorable day today, thanks mostly to our neighbors here in Le Sappey, Jacques and Madeline. They invited us to a local fete, a big outdoor picnic (although that does not begin to describe it) on a high alpine meadow beneath the Chamechaude, a huge expanse of bare limestone seemingly pushed straight out of the ground, topping out at 2052 meters. The fete was called the “Fete des Bergers,” and is either a celebration of the time when the herders move their sheep from one side of the mountain to the other, or a celebration of the beginning of the time when the French “partir en vacance.”

We started out at 10 a.m., and drove a few miles up a gravel road to the beginning of a trail. The trail at first followed the road, then led off into a dirt switchback trail. About and an hour and fifteen hundred feet of altitude gain later (the first part was hard, and yes we were sweating and thirsty by the time we arrived), we came out of the trees to the site of the fete, at the edge of a vast meadow beneath the mountain, near a small, fairly primitive house whose occupant, Jesus, a sheep herder, lives during the summer. (Jesus later told us that the fete was for locals only because he tried, unsuccessfully, to get permits for it from the authorities, and got tired of the "papier, papier, papier." Clearly the whole affair would not have been allowed, if only because there were no toilets (only one source of running water, as far as I could tell), forcing everyone to scurry off into the woods from time to time.)

It is hard to describe the magnitude and the majesty of this place. The best I can suggest is to click on this link -- http://static.flickr.com/59/202021313_8c3181c34a_b.jpg -- but the photo does not do the place justice. A short way from the fete is a sign indicating the altitude, 1512 meters, and standing above that sign you have a 210 degree view of mountains, all around. The morning was so clear you could see for hundreds of miles to the east, south, and west. Later in the day at the same spot, Suzie and I sat and watched the clouds that had formed above the many peaks, making the scene, if possible, even more beautiful, the peaks mottled by shadows, the puffy white clouds adding contrast. Even in midday, the crickets (or something akin today) chirped loudly and constantly, adding a strange constant black noise to the scene. And a few hearty alpine flowers managed to blossom, along with stinging nettles, which Will and Andrew managed to get into a few times.

The fete itself was a catered affair, but not catered in a small-puffy-things-on-a-plate way, but rather catered in a this-is-how-you-serve-three-hundred-people-without-a-real-kitchen way. We spread a blanket on the ground next to Jacque and Madeline, amidst families and friends and couples of all ages. A band (two guitars, violin, and saxophone) played traditional music, lightly amplified. The prelude to the meal was sangria, chips, peanut, and fruit juice (cassis and water, actually), which you had to go get yourself, but the rest of the meal was served. First came the napkins, which brought a cheer from the crowd. Then came the knives and forks. Then came the plastic plates. Then came the first course … brought by two men carrying what looked to be a large flat square metal trough, and a ladle, which the used to scoop huge portions of something that consisted of various vegetables in a light creamy sauce; a second man brought rolled pieces of thinly-sliced jambon (ham), which was very tasty. The next course took a while to come – lamb or mutton, which had been cooking on an open charcoal fire, wrapped in foil, since we had arrived. Somewhere before then a man passed out dense French bread sliced in large pieces. And sometime before that had come bottles of wine, red and rose (which seemed to be in short supply, and was much sought after, especially by the women). After the lamb there was another short break, followed by the service of two cheeses (one soft and one semi-soft), followed by coffee (brewed in a huge metal kettle), followed by a magic liquor made by steeping some kind of plant found on the mountain in pure alcohol, which Suzie seemed to enjoy.

But the best thing about the experience was … the experience itself, the experience of being privy to something genuine, not something created for tourists, but something real. And being able to watch, and interact with, Jacques and Madeline and their friends. Most of the time we could not understand much, but when people spoke slowly, we could understand, and we found that, with little effort, we were able to communicate in French, something I never thought I would be able to do. Everyone was friendly, without exception, and it seemed that everyone there was having a good time, in good fellowship, with good-natured ribbing, good-natured arguments, and a feeling of genuine affection. The French love to talk, love to dispute, love to contradict, but in a seemingly gentle way. Even when the crowd was whooping and hollering, it was somehow civilized.

And when we packed up and were ready to leave, all of the people sitting around us made a special effort to give us an “au revoir” and to smile and to wave their goodbyes (they all knew by now that we were, as Jacques would introduce us, Americans from California). This has been our experience everywhere we have gone.

I would write more, but I am tired. Maybe Suzie will add something. For now, I leave you with pictures:

Chamechaude