I have been so busy writing that I failed to notice that something was afoot in the village: that my neigbours were hanging medieval yellow and gold flags from their windows, for example and that bunting had been hung up in the square. Then crossing the market place en route to the newsagents this morning, I encountered a parade of people in tunics, chainmail and strange pointy hats, many of them on horseback. It was, I realised, the annual medieval fete.
The village's 10th century chateau had raised it's portcullis, and inside the stone walls, people were trying their hand at archery and calligraphy, while a hog was roasting on a spit and a bunch of men in monk's outfits sang madrigals. Excellent! Had such an event happened in the UK, no doubt Louis Theroux would have been sent along to wryly report on the strange goings on. But in France, even the sleepiest villages come alive in the summer with fetes, vide greniers and outdoor concerts. (Although the vide greniers, unfortunately, are mostly populated by expat Brits flogging off their broken china and old biscuit tins.)