It was a day of firsts. The first time I was involved in a head-on collision with a penny-farthing bicycle… The first time I have been mistaken for a goldfinch… The first time I have been flattered by a butternut squash… The first time I have rented muttonchops and a mimosa sprig boutonniere… The first time I had dinner sat beside an old cranker… The first time a lady has dropped her handkerchief for me to pick up, and the first time I have ever kissed or been kissed by a nun. Because she brazenly made the first move.
She threw back her coif and grabbed me by the fountain. Our lips met. She tasted divine and smelled heavenly. She tasted nine different Lirac grape varieties. With a hint of “pate du pays”. She was full-bodied, very soft in the mouth, and determinedly fruity. She was clearly no novice. In fact, she was no nun at all. Only dressed up as one. The patron saint of lovers in partnership with the “town of lovers” allows it. Just for the day. The Day of the Festival des Amoreux. Or Festo de Poutoun.
Roquemaure, in the Gard region of south-east France on the other side of the Rhone river from the famous Chateauneuf-du-pape vineyards, stages the world’s only kissing festival. “La Fete du Baiser” is held on the Saturday after St Valentine’s Day.
St Valentine’s remains are kept in Roquemaure’s fourteenth-century collegiate church and paraded every February through the streets of the village, 15 km from Avignon and 40 from Nimes. Couples visit the church all year round to renew their wedding vows in front of a glass cabinet beside the altar. It contains a shin and a couple of ribs. The reliquary looks very much like an old aquarium.
The festival was started by a local priest, Father Rene Durieu, and commemorates the arrival of the relics in “La Midi Mediterranean” in 1868. The local vines, planted in the twelfth century by the Crusaders amongst the chalky “Lauze” stones of the “garrigue” region, had been devastated by “phylloxera” (“les taches de Roquemaure”). Local landowner, Maximilian Richard, who owned the domain of Clary, bought the relics. He had introduced the disease through American rootstock. Within four years, the ancient vines were healthy again. Roquemaure’s favorite son and most famous resident now even has his own winery and wine label “Cellar Valentin”.
It is served at the annual gala dinner in Roquemaure Town Hall to complement Monsieur Traitieur’s lobster ravioli, veal pouches with morels, and iced Vacherin with vanilla. The dress code is not strictly nineteenth-century. Military plumes are as optional as bloodied goatskins. February is named after the ancient ritual of purification and expiation and the Lupercalian pagan worship of the she-wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus.
St Valentin was bludgeoned to death and then decapitated along the Fleminian Way in 268 on the orders of the Roman Emperor, Claude 11 the Cruel. He had been caught performing illegal marriage services for Roman soldiers. Claude believed married soldiers were poor soldiers. Valentin refused to renounce God. While awaiting execution, he cured Julia, his jailer’s daughter, of blindness. He became the official “patron des amoreux” in 1496. The first bouquets were given at a reception thrown by the daughters of Henry V.
In mid-February, the florists around Roquemaure do a great trade. As do the grocers. One lady presented me with some “colonquils”, which, as tokens of endearment, sound much more romantic than “ a selection of semi-petrified squashes”. A lot of hankies are accidentally purpose-dropped on the ground by the ladies and gallantly picked up by the gentlemen. Lace comes from the Latin “laquearea”, meaning “to catch”. But kissing and drinking are the main pastimes. And avoiding the drunk on the penny farthing.
Everywhere I went, everyone puckered up. You can’t move for crackers (“les manivelles” or barrel organists), “Les Limoneurs” (mechanical piano players), and “Les Eternelles Chansons du Amour”, sung around “La Place de Pousterle” (of the narrow staircase). Under the huge rock (“Rupa Maura”) which gives the village its name, there is a market full of “bonimenteurs!” (peddlers) in period costume. The tower was once the residence of Louis of Anjou. A kiosk sells special kissing festival postcards and stamped envelopes. The Barbary grinder grinds, “les tourneurs” turn and the crankers crank out the music and everyone dances and kisses each other.
“We are kissing connoisseurs!” said a lady in a bonnet, planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek. I caught the unmistakable “nose” of the sought-after Cha appellation. Only the French know how to kiss. They have made an art of it. They have conducted experiments for centuries!”
“We have the best-tasting lips in France,” said another lady in another bonnet and bustle. “ They taste of honey and broom-like white Lirac.”
“That is your first grand cru kiss, monsieur,” she giggled, unclamping herself from my face.
Everyone dresses up in period costume and the wine and the embraces flow all day long. “We are kissing connoisseurs!” said Sylvie, who said she was a local historian. “We go for four pecks and long clinches. Un! Deux! Trois! Quartre!” she shouted, demonstrating on my cheekbones and rib cage.
“We hate all that air kissing. The mwaa, mwaa! C’est tres disagreable! Only the French know how to kiss. Passionately! They have made an art of it. They have studied it scientifically. They have conducted experiments for centuries!”
Over yet another glass of complimentary “Cellar St Valentin” chardonnay Madame Riou told me that a Prussian, Von Stephan, probably produced the first Valentine postcards in 1865. Although “Valentine’s Day” is only a recent custom in France in the fifteenth century, Charles of Orleans, after twenty years of imprisonment in England, established within the French court a tradition of sending messages of love and affection.
The lady dressed up as a nun was now being uninhibitedly affectionate towards a man dressed up as a monk. I accepted many friendly “poutins”. Tarts and tartlets were everywhere. Along with heart-shaped gingerbread, hear-shaped gateaux, heart-shaped bonbons, and hearty cassoulets.
“I have seen a goldfinch” cried one woman, pointing at me. “If you see one on Valentine’s Day you will marry a wealthy man, “ she explained. “A robin means you will marry a man in uniform. But beware if you see a squirrel. You will marry a miser! A sparrow means you will not be rich but you will be happy. Sarrows are common,” she added with a Gallic shrug.
There were a few tall, dark, and handsome top-hatted men. Mainly, on stilts.
A teenage couple duetted, “Au coin de la tenre bouche. A l’ombre du nez finement aile. C’est la qu’il est, pour moi. Le plus beau lieu du monde!” which, I was later told, translates as “ At the corner of your mouth, in the shadow of your impressively-shaped nose. That is the place for me. The most beautiful thing in the world!”
The wine and the occasion were beginning to work their magic and I took things and one passing blonde lady into my own hands. I took a deep breath and crushed her lips onto mine.
After a minute, faking fluster and fanning down her ardor, the lady managed a “Monsieur!”. I raised an eyebrow and gave her my “well-aged” look.
