Festa de St Joan

Today is St Joan, which celebrated the solstice. apparently the early church frowned upon the pagan aspects of the summer solstice celebrations, so appropriated the nearest Saint and said "you're it !"

The village had a dance and a bonfire, and let off a few fireworks. We or rather we without my participation, decided to hold a small party of our own. The Pleasure Prevention Officer decreed it was to be a pot luck supper ( a celebration beloved of the Catalan nature because it involves people bringing their own food, and so falls within acceptable thrift habits )

It started out as a truly international gathering, Norwegians, Dutch, Irish, Catalan, German, Swiss, Scots and English. The PPO issued instructions as to what each guest should bring, showing a remarkable power off organisation so we didn't end up with 26 dishes of potato salad, a Coque St Joan and some slightly dubious "Ancient" Gouda.

As it transpired the Swiss failed to appear, the Norwegians were booked on a family cruise, probably invading the Shetland Isles. One of our Dutch friends was offered a slot to have her slipped disc repaired and the Irish self made millionaire was in a depression because he had invested heavily in the banking sector before Moody's downgrade. One of my english friends was vetoed on the grounds of good taste, so we ended up with a very select bunch, 3 English, 3 Scots, 5 Dutch, 2 Germans and 4 Catalans.

The food was delicious, in fact so good I promised to marry one of the dutch ladies, on the grounds that her quiche and lemon drizzle marked her out as an angel (that was the end of the Cava for me) We talked about everything, contemporary dance, international law, renewables ,small scale turbines, Indian royalty, standards of teaching, how to launch a new combined hammock and rucksack using social media, internet marketing, Nepalese caricaturists in Barcelona, blipfoto, the corruption endemic in the political system, organic chard, and that was just the beginning.

The music, decried by youngest as unlistenable to, was eclectic, though even I will admit that Willy Nelson sings sad songs and the Joe Falcon Cajun fiddle band are not to everyones taste.

The night ended far too soon with the Germans setting off to march eastwards,(I hope they stopped before Poland this time) amid the thunder of fireworks from the village with the prospect of getting up at 4.00 am to take A and his beloved to the airport to catch an early plane for a two day mini hol in Paris.

Back to bed until 10am and thus an apologetic back blip, the citronella torches were pretty and showed the garden in a good light (sorry).