The Plough and the Stars part II

The next time the Plough cropped up (sorry) in my life with any striking regularity was in south-west France, deep in the picturesque, rolling countryside where I lived and worked cutting grass and serving behind the bar at a golf course near Villeneuve-sur-Lot in the Aquataine region.


Rows of vines adorn the slopes like a battalion of soldiers all stood to attention. These are interspersed with fields of sunflowers, rene claudes, prunes, green-gages, corn and cattle that account for the majority of the produce here. Between this eclectic scene of nature lie the farms themselves, keepers of this verdant, tranquil corner of France. Life moves slowly; dictated by the weather (and the church bells), the farmers toil from day break, when the mist rising off the land gives the place an ethereal, mystical feel, to midday, when they religiously down their tools and take a well earned break for the hottest part of the day.


Throughout this region the seasonal fruit-pickers carry out the back-breaking work of collecting the ripened fruit. They also pack up their things, and, resting weary limbs, head to the farmhouse where a delicious array of tradtional French food awaits, thick soup, crammed with vegetables, salads laced in homemade dressing, meats, du vin, du pain, beef tomatoes is olive oil, sauted potatoes, the lot, all cooked by the farmer's wife to keep the workers going. Cheese and desert follows, and as eyelids become heavy and drowsiness kicks in, un petite siesta is called for.

It's not just the farm-hands who lead this lifestyle either-the local builders, carpenters, electricians, plumbers, will convene at the village restaurant for lunch, where a simple yet filling meal is served every lunchtime, accompanied with a carafe of wine. After a quick nap, they all resume their work after a strictly obseved two hour break. The 35-hour week is probably no longer de rigeur across France, but out here in the sticks as I said life moves slowly, not simply on a day-to-day basis, but also in terms of embracing social evolution. These sleepy backwaters of France will never change I don't think, and they, and regions such as the Lot-et-Garonne, retain much of their beauty and charm because of it.

But back to the Plough, which stands unwavering day and night, forever unseen by half the world, and not given its dues by the other half. I digressed a little there, but I wanted to convey the circumstance with which I was lucky enough to encounter the Plough ever balmy summer night for five years. But that will have to wait...37 minutes are up.