Fete de St. Vincent

Carrying the wine cask

President of Prosper Montagne club, sponsors of the festival

Hunters present a fanfare

Full regalia

Yesterday was Saint Vincent's Day. Today we celebrated his festival.  St. Vincent is the patron saint of winegrowers, and as this is the biggest wine-producing region in France, keeping him happy and honored is serious business.  Today's fete was run by and for the locals; there was some mention of it in the paper, but very little publicity is aimed at tourists.  

I was here for the festival in January 2014, so I knew what to expect.  I tried to reject making comparisons.  Times and people change, and I have to allow for that without judgment.  We were supposed to gather at 10:15 in Place Gambetta to set off through the streets.  I have learned not to count on too many on-time starts to events here.  It's more relaxed.  My upstairs neighbor, Susan and I met to watch the gathering.  We ran into a friend of hers, Michel at the tabac, who was also present to take photos.  As there was still not a robe or banner in sight, I decided to head to the market; I wanted a jar of honey.  I knew I wouldn't miss much; the parade would be headed toward the market at any rate.

Order of the stuffed chicken

Most of the  participants from 2014 were here again this year.  The hunting club in their red jackets offered fanfares on their hunting horns. They make playing those horns look easy.  I assure you, it is not.  Those are valve-less horns and the only way to change notes is to change the the position of the mouth--quickly and accurately.  There is something deep-rooted and timeless in that sound.  The confreries (brotherhoods) of various food and wine lovers were there:  cassoulet, the chicken farmers, the veal raisers, all in robes and hats and carrying banners.  Some wine producers were carefully cradling their precious bottled cargo like newborn infants.  There was a litter on which was a cask decorated with vines and grapes borne aloft by four carriers. These people are deeply connected to one another and to the land.

Brotherhood of Cassoulet of Castelnaudary

Saturday market as usual

The procession stopped at Place Carnot, in front of a bustling Saturday market.  The locals mostly acknowledged the procession and then went back about their marketing business.  Newcomers like Susan and I were busy taking photos (there was also a lot of press there) and walking along with the participants.  They made a stop inside the Cercle du Taurin  (afficionados of the bullfight) "clubhouse" right off of Place Carnot.  During the procession in 2014, this stop involved plenty of opened wine bottles, but this time, it was too crowded for me to get inside.  Susan tells me that she saw no sign of opened wine, so maybe they didn't do that this year.

This group is headquartered in Toulouse

The "lead" vintner?  

The priest welcomes the procession to St; Vincent's church

Back out into the streets they came, en route to St. Vincent's church, whose bells were pealing loudly, calling everyone to the service.  The priest stood in the doorway,  welcoming the petitioners. The church's organist, Henri Ormieres, played a thundering processional.  

Organ at St. Vincent's

I think St. Vincent's has the best organ in Carcassonne.  The hunting horns provided more fanfare, confirming my belief that the hunting horn is an outside instrument, not meant for the reverberations of a cathedral.  We had a short service: some  prayers and asked-for blessings .

Blessing the wine

There was a hymn in Occitan.  Henri prepared a two-piece organ "recital":  Bach's Wachet Auf and a 20th century piece with which I was unfamiliar.  The priest performed the benediction, and we all recessed outside and across the alley to St. Vincent's private little vineyard.  There the lead vintner and one helper cut the last few bunches of grapes, a symbolic act, I think.

Symbolically pruning the last of the grapes

Once the vines were clean, the lead vintner, who'd been sporting a mini cask around his chest (it reminded me of the Saint Bernards of the Alps) opened the cask that had been on the litter and offered a little glass of chardonnay to any takers.  It tasted of earth and "rocks,"  my favorite.  I am no wine connoisseur, but I marveled at being able to walk through the streets with a cup of wine in my hands and know that nobody was going to give me grief about it.  And it didn't even have to be in a brown bag!

A taste, anyone?

During this fete, I was even more aware of the Southern France-Catalonia connection and roots to this tradition.  The Languedoc has a unique culture, history and identity.  Wine growing in this rocky, limestone-y soil, bullfighting, a reliance on the Saints, and the language of the region, Occitan, set it apart from other areas of France and more closely link it to Spain.  People here are proud of their heritage.  Yes, they might talk on their cell phones while in full medieval regalia--one has to embrace the times, after all-- but their roots go deep into this limestone-y soil. Note the dates on the banner of the chicken farmers!  Those roots today were celebrated and traditions honored.  It's one of the things I most like about living here. 

So, a tally of the day reveals: a jar of mountain flower honey, some spices and a helping of wild boar from the market: getting to hear the hunting horns:  peeking inside the Cercle Taurin;  meeting a man from Denmark who was passing through on his way to Carnaval in Limoux and explaining the goings-on to him; singing in Occitan; hearing Bach on a magnificent organ played expertly; and a taste of the 2015 grape harvest.  Not bad for a Saturday morning.    

Plow in St. Vincent's vineyard