Bastille Day and a Little Football Match – Celebration Weekend in Le Reposoir

Zagan the motorhome is squeeeeeezed into the aire in Le Reposoir (N46.00986, E6.53626), just below the Col de la Colombière, ready for Stage 10 of the Tour de France tomorrow. He got here a few days early, and it’s a good job he did. Most vehicles on the roads now are motorhomes and campervans looking for a space to park up along the route before the road closes tomorrow. The residents of Le Reposoir have been amazing, they have welcomed us camping-caristers with open arms, and even laid on entertainment.

It’s so packed in the car park there was no point in taking a photo beside Zagan!

When the crowd surged forward to storm the Bastille in 1789, they would have no idea over two hundred of years later their actions would still be commemorated with fireworks and parties. On the eve of Bastille Day (la Fête nationale in French) the village of Abondance held their celebrations, so they wouldn’t clash with Châtel a little way up the valley, where they were setting off fireworks on the 14th. The poster said to gather for a concert starting at 8.45, followed by fireworks at 9.30pm. We wandered over around 9.15pm to catch the end of the concert, but it was still quite light, too light for fireworks. The council at Abondance weren’t daft, the times were to get everyone out for the concert, which carried on until gone 10pm. The local band played everything from the Rocky theme tune to Angels by Robbie Williams, and rounded off with the La Marseillaise, the French national anthem for which the whole village joined in.

We made our way outside past the bar and Barbe a Papa stall at which point Jay laughed. “What’s so funny?” I asked, ‘Barbe a Papa, is Dad’s Beard. Candyfloss is Dad’s beard.’ I was still confused as to me Barbeapapa is a pink splodge of a cartoon character from my childhood, I guess it was made in France and dubbed over for folks like me.

Once outside there was a little confusion as to what was going to happen next, closely followed by a whooooosh. Then a boom. It was fireworks time. Up on the hill above the village a tiny torch could be seen moving in the trees to set off the display. My oooohs and ahhhhhs were mixed with a tear and sadness. This was our first ever Bastille Day celebration, if Charlie hadn’t passed away we would have stayed in Switzerland to avoid the fireworks. He hated fireworks and we did our best to avoid them for him.

The last boom finished echoing around the mountains followed by a short burst of applause in appreciation. Then the music was cranked up and most folks made for their cars to head home. We strolled back to Zagan and settled in for a surprisingly quiet night. The follow morning just after 7am our alarm went off, hang on, we hadn’t set an alarm, and it’s Saturday. So what was the ringing noise?

Our mountain alarm clock

We had a vague plan about where to head to next, so we set our satnav for Le Grand Bornand which hosts a stage of the Tour de France in a few days time. They were also having a firework party tonight, so we figured we  would nip to Le Reposoir to use the service point, then pop to Le Grand Bornand for a couple of nights, then back to Le Reposir service point again, before finding somewhere to park along the final ascent of the Tour stage on Monday. Of course, plans change.

Arriving in Le Reposoir the aire was packed, it’s supposed to take 10 motorhomes but there were at least 25 in here. We parked up and waited to use the service point. As the motorhome using the services finished and moved off, another motorhome behind him started his engine. I waved at him and pointed out that we were next, then turned around to direct Jay over the grey water grate. The motorhome behind me started to move forward then beeped his horn at me, I jumped out of the way and he just missed me. Needless to say that by now we weren’t happy, as another motorhome had pulled up behind the one that had just tried to run me over. So instead of using the service point we decided to leave. Sadly when it’s an event or space is at a premium, we’ve seen how heated things can get so quickly. Already folks were putting tape across patches of land on the route to stop people parking next to them. In the aire a chap saw us looking for a space and manoeuvred his camping chairs out into the space next to him (like in Forrest Gump: “ya can’t sit here, seat’s taken”), which would never have fitted a motorhome in anyway.

As we left the aire Jay calmly told the man in French that what he did was not good because he loves his wife and would not want to see her hurt – how much do I love my amazing husband. The ‘would-be Ju runner overer’ said he had forgotten to put his hand brake on and it was an accident, I guess we’ll never know. As we started to drive away there was another motorhome coming up the lane towards us, a stand off. Then a local man appeared and asked if we wanted to stay, we said we would but the aire was full, he said he would find us a space, and he did. So we’re now blocking in folks, and are ourselves blocked in, but we’re all here. The same man has been guiding loads of motorhomes into spaces around the village, which has now probably more than doubled in population.

Jay went for a run up to the Col and reported back that it was full, as were any obvious spaces along the side of the road. This was Saturday, the tour isn’t due until Tuesday. While Jay was out I wandered around the village and spotted posters for a disco and fireworks on Saturday night, a village fete on Sunday which included the World Cup Final (which France were playing in) and a giant BBQ on Monday. So it looks like we wouldn’t get bored waiting for the Tour. On Saturday night we watched our second set of Bastille Day fireworks, this time we didn’t venture out until around 10.15pm when it was dark enough, and the thunder and lightning had stopped.

On Sunday we were up early to grab some bread for the local shop, just in case they hadn’t ordered in extra supplies for the newly swollen population. Walking through the main square our nostrils were filled with the most amazing smells. Madames were cooking crêpes, and a huge spit was cooking up hams – preparations for the village fête were in full swing.

We walked back to the fête just before noon and ate our way around the stalls for lunch. We had beignet de tartifles, some sort of fried potato, garlic treat, ham from the spit and I managed a Nutella crêpe for desert. A brave bloke walked on a tightrope over the crowd to the church, while below him another chap carved a face into wood with a chainsaw as the local children did a dance in traditional dress.

Thanks to Valerie for getting in touch on Facebook and letting us know that the man on the rope is Nathan Paulin who lives in Le Reposoir. He is a world record holder in slack line and his best record is crossing on a 1662 m long line at 300 m high!

But the best was yet to come. A woodcutter competition. We got a space right next to the barriers as the contestants pulled on their chainmail socks. Then before we knew it they were chainsawing discs from the top of a pole before hacking down the same pole with a razor-sharp axe, all against the clock and racing each other. By the time it was done we were both covered in sawdust, but it was brilliant.

Several more rounds followed, then other activities such as twin sawing a huge log, and axing ‘twigs’ off a pole. We loved it all, even when bits of wood were flying in our direction. The finale saw two competitors axe down a telegraph pole height, but double the width, pole – with ropes on so the organisers could control which way it fell, yes there was some health and safety, but not much. As the last pole fell, the church clock struck 5pm and the crowd dashed over the road to the local restaurant which had a big screen TV outside. World Cup time.

We’d seen France play a Rugby World Cup Final a few years ago, where wine was supped and nibbles put on at half time. It seems that the football watchers are a slightly different breed, but the atmosphere was amazing. The national anthem was once again bellowed out, then nerves settled everyone into their seats, until the the first goal around 18 minutes in, then the whole place erupted. After that it was a bit of a blur, and I’m pretty sure 95% of those watching still don’t know Croatia scored two goals, they were all too busy celebrating.

Beer to watch the match, wine to celebrate with.

We got chatting to Paul and Ruth from Sheffield, it’s a small world, who have been living the motorhome life for around four months now. Sadly the conversation was interrupted by the match a lot, and we’ll hopefully catch up with them again in the next couple of days, but it was worth it. The noise increased as the minutes ticked down, ‘Allez les Bleus!’ were shouted and the singing began before the start of injury time, all helped along with the roar of a chainsaw that someone had brought into the pub with them – luckily minus the blade. At the final whistle the bar cleared, its occupants now jumping into cars and vans hand painted in red, white and blue carrying as many people as they could around the streets, horns beeping, crowds cheering and shouting.

After half and hour or so, the parade made its way into the main square where a band was already playing as part of the fête. The bar was swamped, wine bottles were passed around and drunk out of, and the party carried on for quite a while.

We retreated back to Zagan around 9pm, both totally tired out after an amazing day. Monday is a rest day for the Tour de France, and will probably be one for us too.

Ju x