playing away

At last. Dave has a big grin on his face! A love affair?

Indeed. He played pétanque on Sunday in a French National Competition in Bram.

In our first blog post, I mentioned that we were spending time in France so that Dave could take on the French at their own game. No, not the game of love... the game of pétanque. It is his passion, his first love? “No you are dear,” he counters.

As soon as we arrived in Limoux, Dave rushed down to watch the men play pétanque on pistes by the river. He watched a few times. But for our first two weeks here, he didn't play at all.

“They don't ask me to,” he said, when I wondered why he wasn't playing.

“Of course they don't. You don't say anything and you don't arrive carrying a bag of boules.”

So we searched the stores in Limoux for boules, but they were the wrong size or the wrong weight.

“What difference does 1 mm and 10 grams make?” I asked. He gave me a withering look. They have to be JUST RIGHT, because they were to replace his worn out boules at home.

“I think I will give up on the idea of playing,” he said. “Oh no you won't,” I replied, tired of living with an addict going through withdrawal from playing.

I nagged some more and he drove to Carcassonne to look for boules but somehow took a wrong turning and ended up on the toll road nearly at Toulouse, so he parked on the side of the road and walked until an emergency vehicle rescued him.

After all that he returned home eight hours later, empty handed. He couldn't find the perfect boules in Carcassonne and announced that he wouldn't look any more because he “didn't want to cart boules around Europe.”

But I didn't give up on the sisyphean task of getting him on the pistes of France.

Dave hadn't found any official clubs or contact numbers in or near Limoux. He found a clubroom and some pistes, but it was shut up, had no information and no-one was ever there when we passed.

When he asked the local men, he couldn't understand their response. “I can't play pétanque with French men. I can't talk to them,” he said. “ But that's the point,” I said. “People don't talk when they play pétanque.”

Then he decided that the standard of play was too high. “That is why you want to play with them,” I sighed.

It seemed impossible. He didn't want to drive in and out of Limoux to play. He was tired. He had a pain in his side [and it wasn't only me] and he was too depressed.

By now I was depressed too. But the only way I could see to break this cycle was to get him playing.

I found a number and an address for a club in Bram about 45 minutes away.

It was the only club listed in the Aude Département.

“I want to go to Bram to see a circular village and walk along the Canal du Midi,” I said, innocently.

Our first stop in Bram was the boulangerie where we saw a poster advertising a national pétanque competition the following weekend. He telephoned to register but was told he had to find his own team. Thwarted again!

But I insisted on going to watch the national competition on Saturday. He agreed and we turned up early enough for him to ask if any teams need a third player.

“Impossible!" came the reply from the important looking row of eight local officials behind the registration desk and the six national officials and umpires behind them. But they examined his 'Pétanque Federation Australia' licence and declared it valid.

“What about the doubles competition tomorrow afternoon?” he asked. “Perhaps,” one replied, peering over his glasses at this audacious Aussie, asking to play pétanque in a French national competition.

Then the triples competition began. And the sight of 333 French men, and the clacking of boules, the crunching of feet on fine gravel, the shady pistes and the air of excitement aroused Dave's desire to play.

We watched a couple of games, drove on to Castelnaudry for lunch and a barge cruise on the Canal du Midi.

It was our first experience of boating on a canal, under stone bridges and through locks, constructed in the early 1600s when this marvellous waterway first connected the Mediterranean with the Atlantic ocean. It was like sailing through a pale green tunnel.

View of Canal du Midi from our barge.

And a group of boules-players on the banks of the canal, waved and smiled as we passed.

France's other favourite national family pastime... canal-side

As we left Castelnaudry, Dave decided to have one last look for boules at the massive 'Intersport' store on the outskirts of town. There were none that matched his specifications, but this time close enough was good enough. He was now like a hound who has caught the scent of the fox.

We returned to Bram the following day. The officials seemed surprised to see us again, but impressed that Dave had bought a set of boules and was determined to play.

There was no-one looking for a partner, and registrations closed in 5 minutes, so one of the officials took pity on him and organised a “friendly” game before the competition started. Dave played badly. Nine weeks “out of the saddle” and nerves took effect. He and his partner were forced to kiss Fanny. Suitably shamed, we walked away. A voice on a loud speaker called “David Ward” to the desk.

New boules new pistes.

They had found him a partner. He was in the doubles championship!

Jerome was a delightful youngish French guy from Toulouse. But he was already staggering and told Dave he had had too much to drink.

“They have given me a drunk,” Dave says.

But Jerome is an excellent player, who can shoot and point brilliantly, even if he can barely stand.

“I was a champion of this département” he told me. “I drink too much. But it is not a problem. My English is very good. My German is gooder. It is not a problem playing with an Australian. No problem. With a German, a Canadian. No problem.”

“My mother died four months ago. This is why I drink.”

“I am sorry,” I said. “You will feel better soon.” I realise he is young enough to be my son.

“All is good.” he said as he disappeared, slopping his plastic cup of beer, passionately greeting his many friends.

National doublette team...Dave pointeur

...and Jerome tireur

At about 11 in the evening, we drove home. Following a crescent moon. Dave and Jerome won only two games, but how they played and what a joy it was for Dave to be playing away.

Well into the night...