The mornings are gorgeous here in Autumn when the sun shines. A light mist adds to the joy of the view and here in Chef-Boutonne, yesterday’s Armistice commemoration proved to be a solemn pleasure.
More on that after you’ve enjoyed the latest from Brother Ralph, Esme Gat-Tooth and the gang..
Armistice Day
Yesterday, the annual commemorations were held at the Mairie, which we would call the Town Hall in the UK. In Chef-Boutonee, this is a genuine spectacle, even though this year’s version was curiously short, by recent standards.
Leona had ferreted out our commemorative poppies from some secret drawer somewhere in this cavernous house, so as we strolled through the town towards the Mairie, all could see that we were Brits on our way to show our respects.
A note on poppies. Here in France it has been traditional for people to buy a little blue sticker called a “bleuet” - or cornflower - to sport on their lapels but this year, there have been none. My friend Chris Bishop, an Englishman who always proudly wears his Ulster Defence Regiment tie to these occasions, remarked that he had heard that it had proved too difficult to raise moneey with these in France for some reason and so those who would normally have offered them were nowhere to be seen. Leona and I had been accustomed to wear both a poppy and a bleuet on these mornings but today, alas, just the red flower this time.
But significantly, the Maire - or Mayor to you - was seen to be sporting a red poppy himself. No idea where he got that from but an appreciative murmer could be heard among the Brits present. I have noticed over the last few years that he has made a point of mentioning the wartime allies, and especially the British, during his speeches and since we do tend to stand in one clump, he has often proferred a respectful inclination of the head in our direction in the past.
Four standard bearers encircled the stone memorial, all gentlemen of considerable age. They each wore black berets, sober suits and of course, such medals as each had received after significant past campaigns. Their flags were supported in belt-hung leather holsters so that they could raise or lower their standards as required by tradition and protocol. Somebody will probably be able to tell me what these are formally called, I don’t doubt.
The pompiers, who are the firefighters or emergency response teams, stood at ease throughout most of the ceremony and to attention when ordered to by a sharp command, suggesting some understanding of military ways, even though, to all intents and purposes, there has been no military conscription since 1996. Nonetheless, these men and women, impressive in uniforms which, amazingly, they have to buy with their own money, are held in high and respected regard, most being volunteers ready to rush out at the blare of a siren to rescue us from house fires, car crashes and, I would imagine, iron railings into which we have unwisely inserted our heads.
The memorial itself, an impressive pink granite obelisk, is engraved in gold leaf with the names of those brave Chef-Boutonnais who lost their lives in two world wars, an Algerian war, the war in French Indochina and a special category which we Brits would be unlikey to ever come across: “fusillé par les allemands”. That means “shot by the Germans. So effectively, those summarily executed by firing squad.
Every year without fail, one of the officials - and I’m really not sure of his position but it’s always him - reads out every name. It’s poignant enough but that feeling is mulitplied when you hear two or three names with the same surname and think about the parents and extended families of those poor souls.
The giant and ancient cedar which oversees all at the Mairie, stands resolutely to attention throughout the proceedings. This impressive old tree would itself have stood in view of every one of the names recited. They would have known it as the vey emblem and heart of this small town and it is heartening to think on that as we, in our turn, stand in its grounds.
This year, as has often been the case, the day was bright, fine and crisp. Our breath stood forth and our brows contracted ever so slightly against the brightness of the morning sun. Their was a reading which I could not hear properly, so didn’t understand and then the Maire’s speech, after which the Marseillaise was played over the PA system.
Then, it was off to the Café des Sports on the corner of the market square, there to sink a couple of coffees with our friends before trotting back home to our normal lives.
The poppies are in the drawer, now, ready for next year. I hope to see the same faces next time.
Maybe there will be “bleuets”?
Let’s wait and see.
Now, as usual, it’s cartoon time!