En France 35

 

The pounding, visceral, beat of the drums is as insistent as the smiles, of the drummers, are infectious.

Along the quay they march. Carving a swathe through the crowds. Pausing only to throw their brightly painted instruments high into the air. Whilst drumming on.

This evening the streets of La Rochelle, and towns all across France, are packed with revellers and entertainers. For this is the annual celebration of the Summer Solstice : La Fete de la Musique.

Couples dance in the park.

Or spectate, from street cafes.

As a tribally dressed troupe insinuates it’s way through the throng. Moving to a rhythm dictated by the drums.

Crowds mill expectantly, outside the bars.

Where blues-men riff. . . . .

. . . .and a band wait for their moment, to seize centre stage.

Bright sunlight fades inexorably to wan dusk. As it must, even on Midsummer’s Day. 

Festivities rise to fever pitch.

A youthful brass band strikes up.

On the cobbled quay, above the basin in which Stargazer lies.

Inspiring spontaneous twirls and swirls, amongst the audience.

DJ's, at their decks, declaim and orate with a pent up passion.

To the pulse of strobe lights and throb of sound systems. As metronomically mesmerising as the drums.

At sunset, a pipe and drum band launch into their repertoire. Beneath the mediaeval stone walls of the Tour de Saint Nicolas. The timeless skirl, of the pipes, taut rattle of the snare and strident call, of the horns, could equally well be Breton, Irish or Scottish.

The delight, of the crowd, suggests that their refrain is a French as the Marseillaise. Perhaps more so, by dint of its ancient roots.