One of the local lads has the habit of announcing his
arrival from afar by playing Dixie on his car horn – something that started
with Boss Hogg and the Dukes of Hazzard and should have ended with them.
But there are other occasions when the sound of a horn – or even
a whole orchestra-worth - is welcome.
On Saturday there was a wedding – the first we’ve seen in
our tiny little church.
You know when there’s a wedding happening somewhere nearby, because all the guests and the bride
and groom drive around the locality tooting and parping. The cars have bits of gauze on wing mirrors
and aerials, so that should you rush out ready to shake a fist at the disturbers
of the peace, you realise your error and wave instead.
There’s a civil ceremony, and a church one; and between the
two there is a lot of noise to be made, and joy to be shared. In times gone by,
the bride and groom might have been carried aloft by their friends and paraded
through the village, so this is the modern version. They go into the church for
a short ceremony, and emerge for photos, and perhaps go into the Salle de Fêtes
for a couple of hours, and then off they all go again, horns blaring.
It’s very exciting and good-natured, and it’s an invitation
to share in the event even if you don’t know them – though, this being
Brittany, and close-knit, you probably do.
On Sunday morning, the Chasse was about. They are allowed
out to play with their guns on Sundays and Thursdays in our commune, so you
know which days not to go walking across the fields dressed in fur. They have
their hunting horns, which, by and large, the dogs ignore, especially if they
can dash across a road in front of a passing car and frighten ten years off the
driver’s life instead. Still, it’s the traditional note of Autumn.
The nature of the land here is such that you can hear things
coming for miles, especially when they make a lot of noise. So in the afternoon,
alerted by approaching sound, we dashed up to the road to wait, and our
patience was rewarded by a cavalcade of old cars. There were a couple of real veterans, but
mostly they were all from the 50s and 60s. A Mini, a Frog-eyed Sprite, a
Triumph, numerous Renaults, Peugeots, and Citroens, 2CVs of course, a few boxy Mercedes,
some khaki Jeeps, a Caravelle; there were two or three huge American cars,
white-wall tyres and chrome enough to blind, and lots of little round utility ones
like Morris Minors but even more minor. People were smaller when they were
built. Cramming four modern adults inside makes one appreciate the Breton fondness
for the sardine tin.
There must have been 40 or 50 cars in all, all to be greeted
with a wave and a smile – because it’s infectious, all this excitement. It’s
people enjoying themselves in their own treasured vehicles, sharing the magic
of old-fashioned motoring on a sunny afternoon, stirring some memories, and
inviting us to be part of it.
You will rarely, outside of the cities, hear a car horn
sounded in anger; but you’ll hear it often sounded in fun. I know which I prefer.
© lms 2013
