The Market Place - Le Mêle-sur-Sarthe

In English the name is only
ever correct half of the time.
I prefer Le Mêle

“I have crossed the seas, I have left cities behind me,

and I have followed the source of rivers towards their

source or plunged into forests, always making for other

cities.  I could never turn back any more than a record can spin

in reverse. And all that was leading me where ?

To this very moment...”

― Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea

“There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.” 

― Jean-Paul Sartre

The evening draws to night as a lone car approaches across empty parking lots.  Two beams of light focus on the space between 'Le Boeuf Noir' and the town Stationer.  Cracking gravel signals our arrival and we are welcomed by Paul and Frances.  We have arrived in Le Mêle-sur-Sarthe.

In the bright early morning sunshine, I survey La place du Général-de-Gaulle.  The town is waking up to work. Cars head purposefully around two edges of the square.  I spot the boulangerie on the other side and wander over.   'Sept Croissant' I ask hesitantly. The girl gives me a sharp look, 'Sep' she says, having detected an aspirated 't'.  That won't do. 

We arrange our tables in the 'sun dialing' shade that circulates between our houses.  As we settle down with glasses of cider, there enters a tractor, followed by a trailers, and then much more.  Like startled bullocks we face each other,  each thinking that this is our domain.  But in a split second the moment is over and we both get on with our business as if nothing has happened.  From them it is the ritual of the village fete, and every village of respect has one.  What if they cart all the barriers, the bunting and the staging to the wrong village by mistake?  It's of no consequence. It doesn't matter when the fete is, just that there is a fete. That's their fate.

The night sounds of the square erupt after dark.  The suppressed rush of wheels as delivery vans unload contraband through into the back of our neighbour, the stationer.  Lights flash on and off, then darkness, whispered voices, unused to the inconvenience of strangers.  We are the guests of the town, part of the commercial dealings of the square.  Then the young people arrive, wild unrestrained  and free.  It's a midnight party, and they run and scream round the empty parking lots.  I wonder whether someone will call the gendarmerie? But everyone knows the law is busy dealing with bigger battles in Alençon. This is the noise of the night in the square.  Do not have a square if you do not want this noise.  In the morning, if I knew where they lived, I would march up to their homes, where their windows would also be wide open, and sing like a cockerel.  

It's market day tomorrow.  The market in Villefranche-de-Rouergue is so big it takes over the whole town.  What will it be like in Mêle-sur-Sarthe?  Will we find ourselves trapped in our little courtyard with only shade and badminton to console us?  Frances asks the chef at Hotel de La Poste.  He has never been out of his kitchen long enough to see the market.  But he rubs his chin.  "It can be very large, overrun into the bus station.  This is France, how big is a market, who can say?"  In the morning we find a disappointing array of boxes selling second hand shoes.  Owners squat behind them.  Nothing to be afraid of.  

It's time to go.  We gather in the brilliant sun for a group photo.  Sidone takes the picture.  We're all squinting.  At 5am it's our turn to roar round the square as we head for Caen.  I squeal my wheels in a rubber-burning 'doughnut', blaring my horn.  Good Bye Le Mêle-sur-Sarthe, we had a good time.