A village fair in southwestern France.

Here I am, all grown up and writing in english!

Here it is, my first post, a nice photo-story about a Village Fair in south-western France. Languedoc, as it is called, is the historical birthplace of language of Oc, spoken throughout the ages and the former feal states of the kingdom of France.

I have fallen in love with that region a long time ago. As a child, my parents would visit their Occitan friends there. We'd spend only a couple of days, long enough to love it, short enough to leave you grasping for more, trying to figure out what the country was about. Castles on every hilltop, low and dry bushy-woods, gigantic insects, hot winds, and most of all, no rain. Or if any, big warm drops, unable to chill the air.

Five years ago, after a long absence, I went back there in hiding. In search of wilderness, peace, silence. I found it. About a week of hiking, from plateau to creek, hunters' paths, hidden valleys, and sleepy villages.

This year, for Virgin Mary's day, I had the opportunity to capture a few moments of nowaday's Villardebelle, in the Aude department. They say only 50 people still live there. On that specific day, much more gather under the Freedom's tree (planted in 1792). Natives, descendants, foreigners, newcomers... Only on that day.

Hush now.

Villardebelle's church, and the little plaza before it. Right corner, the trumpet player. He'll be the whole band. 

Near here, a cat doesn't give a rat's...

The local officials, gendarmes, mayor, councilmen. Off to the ceremony. 

The trumpet player. He's jazzy, his national will be too.

Time for speeches. Honor the fallen. 

La Marseillaise, national anthem. The church bells start ringing, the anthem goes sideways. At least that's what the man says. 

The Republic did its part, the Church starts its own. Religion meant "get together", originally. 

Some kids are like cats. 

Don't believe what you hear : the priest's got the local accent, but his actually belgian. 

The Virgin Mary's mass is a special one. 

Today in France, less than 5% of christians claim they go to church every sunday. 

Most ot those are aging. 

While certain kids are awaiting their partners for a long due soccer game. 

But communion's no joke. 

Then it's time for a drink. The aperitive ("l'apéro", in popular french). The village boasts a tiny 50 inhabitants. On Mary's day, long-gone natives, relatives, descendants, friends, foreigners who came to inhabit the forsaken houses, gather. 

A time to meet. 

For all generations. 

And to dance, while others chat. 

Or take a good break. 

These two were easy to catch : Andreea, my wife, dances with Marie-Antoinette, wy syrrogate aunt. 

How many sat there in the ages? 

Last bit of tradition : the "tour de table". At coffee's time, musicians go door to door and propose to sing a song. According to the choice, you could tell where they were. For instance, when you'd hear the International, you'd know that uncle X was having his song.