Living in Southern Europe I get a lot of old fashioned Christian feast days. Many’s the time we go into town to do some menial task only to find the shops and offices are all shut for some ancient, and to us, obscure christian ritual that is disturbing the usual run of things. Sometimes it’s simply a nuisance, other times it is an interesting and unusual event and we gladly join in the festivities.
Sadly, over the years these events have often turned into a straight-forward day-off for the working community, and not much else. But last weekend was the feast of St Martin, otherwise known as Martinmas.
OK, so what’t that all about?
Nobody locally seems to know much about it, so I’ve had to look it up. Apparently this particular St Martin was a Roman soldier stationed in Rome in the fourth century. He apparently lived around the area of Tours in Northern France and his festival is celebrated on November 11. It grew in importance in the late middle ages as marking the end of the growing period and the beginning of the “winter revelling season”.
Clearly the saint’s day took over an existing rural festival which marked the brewing of the new beer, and the drinking of the first wines of the new season. A further custom was to light bonfires and roast chestnuts in the ashes while folks danced around. Somehow a bonfire seems a somewhat essential companion to the festivities because, certainly in Northern Europe, the weather would be pretty cold during the second week in November. But bonfires also give out a sense of general bonhomie and good vibes.
To go with this drinks-fest it became a custom to eat a goose as well.
That reminds me of a silly story.
It was the second week in November when I was living in the UK, and we were on the way to the local gym which was in the middle of a park area. We got held up by a whole tribe of greylag geese crossing the road. They stopped to stare at us, and give out a series of puzzled squeaks.
I wound down the car window and peered out. “I hope you guys have remembered it’s eat a goose week.” There was more squeaking and gurgling as they waddled away to the pond on the other side of the road.
But I digress.
St Martin appears to have been a useful sort of chap as he is credited with introducing the Chenin blanc grape into the Touraine and Anjou regions of France.
This year I went and joined in the festivities, such as they were, in the village square at Ferragudo. There was a great metal grid over a fire on which to roast the chestnuts which were then distributed to those of us standing around. I must admit I was hoping we might get a few tasters of the new wine since the vineyards of the Algarve region have been resuscitated. Unfortunately, there was no sign of any wines at all.
The local sea-scouts kept things moving as best they could but instead of a band of local magicians to liven things up, we had one guy playing a synthesiser on the end of an electric cable.
Somehow these ancient festivals lose rather a lot of their character when there is no rustic band and no new wines to taste.
Right, when’s the next festival? I think it’s dedicated to the sweet potato, but that’s next month. I hope to see you again before then.
John Clare, Ferragudo, Algarve