No one told the stallholders.

July 14th. Bastille Day. The ancient combatants stage their march through the centre of town. No one has told the Saturday market stallholders about the march. There is a brief discussion of the ' you move . No, you move ' variety. Then the procession - three old soldiers carrying flags , the members of the retired gendarmes association , the ladies of the beautiful byeways committee,  Madame Bay, her hairdresser daughter Sandrine and a gaggle of grandchildren and their friends -  sets off and slowly navigates  past the clothes stalls, the bakers tressle table and the little caravan that sells cheese. Barring an incident with  pile of baguettes , all goes smoothly. Madame Bay , memorably resplendent in a red, white and blue outfit, is delighted with the crowds that have turned out to watch . 

In the afternoon an antique fair miraculously appears in the marketplace. A dozen or so tourists appear, then disappear. The stallholders carry on chatting amongst themselves, smoking, and drinking armagnac from hip flasks. A chance to meet and chat. Five on the dot and the stalls disappear. The pressure of life in deepest France Profonde .