LIVING IN FRANCE

Don’t Be Sheepish . . . Transhumance Is An Old French Tradition Ewe Shouldn’t Miss . . .

Please don’t say baaa humbug.

Leave that to me.

Among the numerous quirky festivals and events in rural France — everything from frogs and goats to chestnuts and cider — the transhumance is probably my favourite.

Transhumance, a word I’d never even heard of before I came to France, is the seasonal movement of livestock from one area to another. In southern France, this mostly involves moving sheep from lowland fields where the summer heat can be brutal to cooler mountainous grazing spots.

Although some farmers now transport the sheep on trucks, the ancient way of herding them through the village streets has become a popular tourist draw.

A few months after I arrived in France, I started seeing La Transhumance posters around the village — they didn’t do much to enlighten me so my English-speaking friend filled me in. The sheep would be moved from a field a few miles away — kids running along beside them — and through the main street of the village to a field near the mairie (town hall) where they’d spend the night. The next day they’d be herded onto a truck and driven to the mountains for the summer.

Villagers line the main street to watch the sheep, she explained, then head to the trestle tables set up in the square for wine and food — bring your own — to share with the neighbours. There would be music and probably dancing.

What better way to spend a Friday night?

The night before, someone from the mairie issued sheets of cardboard so people could cover their outdoor plants. Nothing like a rose bush or two for hungry sheep on the go.

I’d told my friend that I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t miss it. She laughed.

It’s wall-to-wall sheep. You can’t even walk outside until they’re gone.

Still, I wasn’t taking any chances. About an hour before the sheep were to make their appearance, I walked down to the edge of the village to join the waiting throng.

An accordion player was keeping the crowd entertained.

Then a cheer went up and, out on the road, a moving mass.

The accordion player, inexplicably, began playing Scotland the Brave and the entire flock, maybe 500 or so, came into view, some with bells around their necks.

An hour or so later, it was all over with only a streetful of sheep droppings and a few chewed plants to mark the occasion. But the post transhumance celebration went well into the night.

Even when no special events are going on, living in France is almost always entertaining and, sometimes, frustrating. But that’s life. I write about the realities, and a few of the quirks, of living here. I love to hear from readers about their impressions of France and also from those who have made the move to a foreign country.

A bien tot . . .

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