Back again to the annual fete in the French village where my parents live. I’ve reported from previous fetes, so you can catch-up on just what it involves here (clue: loads of food, loads of boule). Every year is the same, and every year is different, with the events of the year, the weather and who is around subtly changing the feel each time. This year was a mellow affair, with a menu of giant sausages, beautiful beans and jacket potatoes cooked on ‘the plank’.

I love jacket potatoes more than maybe any other food, so I took numerous pictures of the foil-wrapped magnificence being piled onto the coals.

As night fell songs were sung, YMCA was danced to as is ancient (and slightly mysterious) tradition. And my mum and her French friend continued their years-long language exchange programme on the tablecloth.

Anyone want to try forming a sentence using those two phrases? The fete always looks so beautiful, but in a way that is entirely unselfconscious. Everybody brings their own plates, glasses and cutlery and food is distributed in practical, catering-sized pots. Coffee sits on the tables in those wonderful camping flask thingies.

This family managed to bring and set up a set of crockery that almost looked styled – and everyone oohed at it and took a picture. The effort that goes into the fete is immense, with planning of menus a joint effort among the village ladies, and a book kept by mum’s friend to record who is at each meal. I couldn’t resist photographing this historic document for posterity.

The evening finished in fine style with some home-made herby tasting hooch being passed around. Next morning I was, as the Scots say, hanging like washing. But we got up and did it all again, fuelled by some punch and an awful lot more food. Until next year Combeliaubert! What a lovely weekend.