Nana said, ‘Oh, you must come to the market on Monday evening. You’ll love it!’ She mentions the name of the place where it is held; but that’s a really tiny village in the Col des Chèvres – why would they hold a market there, I wonder? Anyway, there’s not a lot to do on a Monday night, so – why not? She says they’ll pick us up at 5.45. I say to Tam that I do need some honey and there is bound to be a local beekeeper selling their produce there, thus giving some focus to the visit.
We leave at the due time, drive through Tournus and up into the hills in the direction of Cluny. It’s beautiful and I recognise that this is where we come in the spring to pick bear garlic and wild asparagus. We drive past that familiar turning but then, almost immediately, turn off to the left. There is no signpost naming the village; instead tied to a tree is a small notice announcing ‘lundi marché artisanal’ from 6-8 pm. The lane winds its way up the hill and is narrow and twisty. Soon, we see the first of several parked cars and up ahead, right on the very crest of the hill stands a clutch of ancient stone houses. There, in the confines of the only road through the village, are a number of stalls, no more than half-a-dozen, plus a van selling charcuterie, ready-made salads and the like, and a mobile pizza truck that comes complete with wood-burning oven.
The place is thronged with people. There are, as one would expect, on the Col des Chèvres, a couple of goat farmers selling freshly made cheeses; another with a stall offering different flavours of oil from the local oil mill, the bee-keeper is there and a jam-maker too. Beyond is ‘un maraîcher’, his stall piled high with vegetables that look as though they have just been pulled from the ground and then there’s a couple selling every type of tomato known to man. At the end is a guy, English, as it happens, who cures and smokes fresh salmon.

At the centre of all the hubbub is an ancient house; I think it might possibly double as the village Mairie, but on Monday evenings it becomes the focal point of the whole affair, with a motley collection of tables and chairs arranged outside and within the dusty interior one can buy bottles of local wine and beer with glasses supplied – though no cork-screws! Those who attend regularly come armed with their own and a Swiss army knife as well.
Nana explains that that we can buy ready cooked food from the charcuterie van, order pizzas from the pizza man and, from the couple who have just arrived with baskets full, fresh loaves of bread, still hot from the oven. The line for the bread forms quickly; the enticing smell of new-baked bread, like siren voices, draws one towards it.
We wander from stall to stall, joining the various queues where everyone seems to know everyone else. I buy my honey, can’t resist the tomatoes and while Nana goes off to join the pizza queue, I choose paté and salads from the charcuter’s van. I spot some little pots of panna cotta next to the dish of home-cured sausage and buy several. Then, making off with our spoils, settle down to a distinctly alfresco meal at one of the tables. Several bottles of wine soon appear with Niko wielding his cork-screw like a professional sommelier.
Though lacking in finesse (and such basics as plates and cutlery – I make a mental note for next time), we share our bounty with the rest of the table. Nana manages to spread paté on chunks of bread, as well as cutting the terrine into manageable slices with Niko’s pen-knife and we use the communal spoon to eat the salads. The paper the charcuterie comes wrapped in serves as plates; it’s hardly hygienic but no-one cares. Later the pizza, now ready and smelling exactly as good pizza should, is distributed from the van. Nana has ordered several, enough to feed the whole table which now numbers around a dozen people. The pizzas are delicious. Our meal is rounded off with the pots of pan cotta and punnets of brambly blackberries and raspberries.
Everyone talks to everyone. One of our friends was raised in this village and recounts its history and the stories of the others around the table. He’s a sculptor, she was a teacher, he is a doctor and they are farmers. We soon know who is related to who (complicated) and more importantly, who speaks to who! My own ability to speak French and join in the conversation improves incrementally with a few glasses of Viré-Clessé. The marketeers pack up their stalls around 8pm but we remain until just after nine, enjoying the last of the evening sun. Nana says in high summer they sometimes stay until much later especially as one of the locals often entertains – he plays the guitar and sings Beatles songs and people dance!

So why was last night so special?
Because it seemed to encompass all that humanity should be about. People interacting just for the joy of it, in friendship, with no-one seeking to make profit from the occasion. Yes, of course, those who bring their products to market expect to make a return but it is only small renumeration for the work they do. Those who organise the event give their time freely and generously, simply because it’s a happy way to bring people together. You can hear the talk and laughter coming from every table – and – there’s not a single phone in sight!