Jazz in Marciac

Once a year the French village of Marciac gets shaken to it's medieval stones. For two weeks every August this little twelfth century Bastide lifts its dusty eyes, slaps on a smile and welcomes, genuinely welcomes, ten thousand people every day.

They come for the jazz. Bizarrely, over thirty years ago a sleepy and inconsequential spot in south west France started a music festival which now features on the international scene for all jazz musicians and their devotees. How can a village of no more than one thousand people play host to ten times that number every day for two weeks and never get overwhelmed? Always a seat at one of the many restaurants that spring up, always a chair in the square to listen to the free jazz and sip a beer, always a space to park the car in the fields that open up on the edges of the village (and always for free).

And the stars that turn up - Joe Cocker, Jamie Cullen, Taj Mahal, Blind Boys of Alabama who play sell out performances in the marquee.

Whether you're a lover of jazz or not, this is a fabulous place to be if only for a day or two. Laid back, no trouble or mess, music playing from morning to night and more bars and restaurants than you could possibly visit in two weeks.

The only consideration is where to stay. Local people open their houses and take B&B guests just for those two weeks but all hotels and Chambres d'Hotes are booked up way in advance. If you don't get booked in somewhere, bring a tent as they'll always squeeze an extra one onto the camp site down by the lake.

Where to eat? Anywhere is good but if you're a real meat eater, sidle down the passageway next to the butchers and eat with the locals in a courtyard - ask for an entrecote and take your time over it!

Thanks to Saint Sylvester

Saint Sylvester was the 33rd pope of Rome who maybe did a few things worth remembering but none, I'll wager, as great as arranging to die on 31st December. Combine the celebration of a Saints Day with the old Roman tradition of eating as much as possible just before the beginning of a New Year (to bring good fortune in the coming year) and you have as good a reason as any as to why, for the fourth year running, we were to be found in the Salle de Fetes with 200 other revellers this New Year's Eve.

If there is a commune in France that knows how to enjoy an evening with quite as much esprit de corps, savoir-faire and joie de vivre then lead me to it. Aperitifs are served between 8 and 9. Dinner's eight courses begin around 9.30 and the last course is served somewhere between midnight and 1am. This year, after foie gras we ate scallops, wild boar, duck breast with morelles and flambeed fruit kebabs. Dancing continues until the morning with soup brought out for those still standing at about 4.30am.

This year the theme was Asterix and the hall was suitably decorated with trees, woodland scenes and gauls with a huge pot of magic potion (that would be Pousse Rapier, the local aperitif) on the stage and allcomers from three years of age to the very elderly took part together in a great evening of jollity, dancing, singing, eating, drinking and the obligatory hugging and kissing as the hour struck. You are left wondering how it is possible for so many people to have such a great time without any signs of drunkeness, fighting, vomiting, falling asleep or gendarme appearances. But you have my word on it, it is possible as we have seen for the fourth time running. There is always plenty of alcoholic drink on the table; they are topped up with wine during dinner, a seriously alcoholic 'eau de vie' appears with a little lemon sorbet plopped inside, then there is 'fizz' of a good type and armagnac to finish.

The French here don't seem to have learnt yet that the only way to have a really good time is to get blindingly paralytic, fall under the table and forget everything that had happened by the next morning.
Long may it last.