Shaping Modern Times in Rural France: The Transformation and Reproduction of an Aveyronnais Community

By Susan Carol Rogers

Challenging the notion that modernization is a homogenizing process, Susan Rogers contends that in the course of large-scale transformations communities often reproduce and strengthen distinctive cultural and social features. To make this argument, she focuses on the French farming community of "Ste Foy" during a period of rapid change (1945-75). Using ethnographic field data and archival material that she collected as a "participant-observer," she finds an intriguing puzzle: an allegedly archaic social form, the ostal, has become increasingly common in the community. The ostal, a type of family farm organized around an extended "stem family" household, is a variant of the stem family systems associated with preindustrial southern Europe. How have Ste Foyans continued to remake this "archaic" mode as their community grew more prosperous and more involved in national and international markets? In showing how the specific identity of a community is reproduced rather than obliterated by modernization, the author reveals dialectical relationships between structure and change, history and culture, and the centralized nation-state and regional diversity. This analysis addresses anthropologists, historians, and scholars interested in local politics and economic development.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Princeton University Press
• Release date: Mar 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9780691226842

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Snapshots from a Moving Picture

THE PATRON SAINT FESTIVAL

AT NOON on 15 August 1975, the tiny village of Ste Foy roars into life as some sixty motorcyclists registered to compete in the afternoon races rip through the village to the couderc, the open central square. The mayor directs traffic, his two adolescent daughters stand by to serve drinks from a table set up on the couderc, and a few other people scurry about seeing that all is in order. Colored lights have been strung up around the square, and loudspeakers have been strategically placed to broadcast pop music, but no one has been able to get them to work. Clusters of Ste Foyans—mostly men and children—stand around to watch. Most of the women are at home, finishing preparations for the family feasts, soon to be served. A kind of excitement is in the air, composed of the macho arrogance of the cyclists, the hyperactivity of the mayor’s group of festivity organizers, and the palpably fascinated tolerance (mixed with skepticism, intimidation, pride, and resentment) of the spectators. A few speeches are made, a lot of toasts are offered, and then everyone scatters: Ste Foyans home to big family meals, and everyone else to wherever they go for the two hours before the races are to start on the course carved into the hilly terrain just outside the village. Once the races begin, the roar of motorcycles will dominate the afternoon, the final crescendo of the motorcycle buzz that has been building all summer as cyclists have come to Ste Foy to train for the race. Never mind, say Ste Foyans, after today you won’t hear them that much. Most of them won’t be back here until next summer. Two of the competitors live in Ste Foy, sons of two of the largest farm owners. This elicits very little comment from anyone. The race will draw several thousand spectators, including the busy organizers of Ste Foy. Most Ste Foyans, though, do not go. Oh we went one year. But once you’ve seen one motorcycle race you’ve seen them all. All that dust and noise, who needs it? They prefer to spend festival day with reunited members of the extended family, gathered around the table for an elaborate and leisurely meal composed of the home-produced dishes for which the region is justly renowned. As the afternoon wears on, family groups divide and drift apart: the aunts out to the kitchen to clean up, the uncles off to the barn, that clutch of cousins outside to stroll around where they used to play, the other bunch off to see whom they can find at the café. Children attach themselves to whoever will tolerate them. In the evening, younger members of the family will go to the dance at the couderc. Some of the adults will sit up late talking with family members they rarely see and will perhaps look in on the dance later. Others will go home to bed, another year’s patron saint festival over.

This image is unavailable due to digital copyright restrictions.

Fig. P. 1. Bourg of Ste Foy, 1975. In the foreground is the township’s motorcycle race course. (R. Bru)

Ste Foy’s patron saint day used to be in the dreary late fall, after the harvest and before the winter ewe-milking season had begun. A kind of Thanksgiving holiday, the fête votive was the occasion for family reunions around a gargantuan feast, the one regular occasion of the year when native Ste Foyans returned to the community and scattered kin regrouped around the paternal table. The day began with a mass, bringing together all present and former parishioners (except some of the women, who remained at home to finish preparations for the meal). Hours at table followed, with dish after dish of the best of the regional cuisine being served up. In the evening, everyone went to the community dance, organized by la classe, all of the Ste Foyan young men in their eighteenth year and therefore to be called up for military service in the following year. Like the morning mass, the evening dance brought together all former and present Ste Foyans. Old acquaintances were renewed, courting proceeded under whatever familial eyes cared to pay attention, and everyone danced the regional bourrée, as well as the polka, waltz, and whatever other dances might be in vogue. Ste Foyans like to have a good time, and eating and dancing are among the best ways they know.

In the early 1960s, it was decided that the Virgin Mary would be a better patron because her festival day falls in mid-August, at the height of the tourist season. August was a much more convenient time for native sons and daughters who had moved away to return home. A few enterprising Ste Foyans looked beyond returning migrants to imagine an August festival as a first step toward developing a tourist trade in Ste Foy, something for which a November festival was useless.

At about the same time that Ste Foy traded in its patron saint, a group of Ste Foyan men formed a festival committee to take over the responsibility of organizing community festivities surrounding the fête. They claimed that the festival would be better if it were put in the hands of adults with more resources, a greater sense of responsibility, and better organizational skills than could ever be expected from a group of eighteen-year-olds. No one had any serious objections, and the festival committee moved into action. Over the years, committee members organized ever more elaborate festivities: they added an additional dance on the eve of the festival, hired better-known pop bands or disc jockeys, and advertised heavily in the region. They measured their success by the spiraling costs and receipts of the festival and the number of outsiders attending it.

Meanwhile, another new organization composed of virtually the same individuals, the Syndicat d’Initiative (a kind of tourist promotion board/chamber of commerce), took the initiative to create a motorcycle race course on the outskirts of the village. Beginning in 1972, an arrangement was made with the motorcycle club of Rodez for an annual race, as a centerpiece of Ste Foy’s patron saint festival. The first year’s races were almost rained out and not very successful, but for a number of years afterward, the race grew, drawing an ever-increasing number of contestants and spectators from a wider and wider radius.

In 1975 a second competition was scheduled on the day following the festival proper: a tournament of boules, a form of lawn bowling popular throughout southern France. This addition was strategic from various perspectives. August 15 happened to fall on a Friday that year, so it was feasible to take advantage of the weekend and extend the festival by a day. By 1975 traditional rural activities had become fashionable in France. Ste Foy was well situated to ply the tourist trade on two registers: the well-established modern motorcycle race and a new traditional boules tournament. Finally, by 1975 the public side of the festival was dominated by the motorcycle race and the pop music dances, activities in which few Ste Foyans felt at all implicated. Boules did interest a large number of local men and boys, and was an effective way to reassociate Ste Foyans with their festival. In 1976, for a similar series of reasons, a third dance was added as well: a bal à papa held the evening after the boules tournament and featuring traditional (i.e., not pop) music—the indigenous bourrée as well as polkas, waltzes, and other old style dance music.

Ste Foy’s patron saint day festival has been elaborated and reworked over the past decades, in attempts to use an old form to attract new audiences and then to recoup old audiences. For most Ste Foyans, the fête remains most important as an occasion for private family reunions, a function whose appeal intensified over the 1955-1975 period when increasing numbers of Ste Foy natives were migrating farther from home. Most Ste Foyans shrug off the public festivities: It’s sort of too bad that the fête is really organized more just for outsiders and young people now. It used to be a village fête. But there you are. On the whole, they are inclined to ignore the new festival with only lukewarm regrets, and to use the fête day much as they always have. Members of the festival committee have rather stronger opinions about it. They are proud to have created an event that has put Ste Foy on the map, drawing thousands from as far away as Toulouse and Montpellier and operating with a substantial budget. They express disgust for those Ste Foyans who are, they say, too backward, narrow-minded, or egotistic to appreciate what has been wrought. It’s always the same few people who do all the work every year. Most of the others can’t even be bothered to show up for anything. Local shopkeepers have equally sharp feelings about the new fête, shaped by dashed expectations: They said this would be a boon to local business. Well, maybe some of the cafés get something out of it. But you don’t catch many of those people who come here coming into our shops. It’s all a lot of trouble and noise and mess that doesn’t benefit more than a few people around here.

The fête goes on, rearranged by some, used in various ways by various groups, the object of conflict, pride, and complacency, an institution that has certainly changed but that nonetheless remains quite Ste Foyan.

GETTING THERE

The train trip from Paris to Rodez, the capital and largest city (population 25,000) of the Aveyron, takes eight hours: five hours south on the Toulouse train, then a change at Brive-La-Gaillarde, some two hundred kilometers north of Toulouse. From Brive to Rodez, 150 kilometers southeast, it takes another three hours by the swaying, bumpy one-car train, the Micheline, which stops in many of the tiny towns and villages along the way. At Capdenac-Gare, the train enters the Aveyron, and continues the sixty-five kilometers further to the capital. The countryside is beautiful and deserted. Rugged stone cliffs have been cut by tiny rivers; the main sign of life as the train creeps along are nonetoo-lively herds of pastured cows and sheep. From time to time, an ancient stone house surrounded by dilapidated farm buildings comes into sight. Someone might stop work to watch the train go by. Sometimes the farms look big and prosperous, but almost always as if they belonged to an earlier century. The villages at which the train stops are sometimes no more than a train station flanked by one or two houses; these are villages composed almost exclusively of outlying farms, sometimes visible in the distance, more often hidden by hills, cliffs, forests. In the spring and summer, there are flowers everywhere: growing wild in the pastures, on flowering bushes and trees, all around the farmhouses, brightening the ancient-looking stone structures. In the winter, it is bitterly cold and damp, with little sign of life at all. Sometimes the landscape is enveloped in a fog so dense that nothing is visible.

Decazeville is an astonishing sight in the midst of this rural placidity. The nineteenth-century steel and coal mining town seems no less archaic than the rest, but its dreary soot-covered rows of workers’ houses and the rusting steelworks next to the station seem strangely out of place.

Decazeville disappears as abruptly as it appeared, and the quietly dramatic countryside takes over again. The land flattens out as Rodez approaches. The green is replaced by rock-strewn land with sparse stubbly growth. Finally, Rodez comes into sight, perched on a hill crowned by an imposing square turreted cathedral, built between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries, and visible for miles around. On the outskirts of Rodez, there are modern concrete houses and apartment buildings, identical to those found throughout France. The train station is outside of town. Buses wait to carry passengers up the hill to the center of Rodez. There, the streets are old and winding, often cobblestoned. On Saturdays they are clogged with people from the surrounding region who have come to the weekly outdoor market: the cattle auction below the cathedral, food vendors overflowing the squares behind the cathedral. Banks, stores, and offices are crowded, doing a large part of their week’s business on market day. Many of the buildings—stores, apartments, offices, and schools—have been renovated. Almost without exception, they are very old. Some of the renovations seem pretentious and oddly out of place: a modernistic fountain set in the midst of the cobblestones, whose water is permanently shut off because it overflowed in the summer and froze in the winter; the huge, uninviting expanse of brick that slopes up to the cathedral, replacing the former tree-filled square and contrasting with the sense of closed, narrow space that characterizes the rest of the city.

The trip on to Ste Foy requires a good car and a good map. It is not far in terms of mileage, but takes forty-five minutes if the weather is clear and if one knows the road well enough to careen at local speeds; otherwise it may take much longer. It is on the way to nowhere, not a place one would happen to pass through. The busy highway leading south out of Rodez through the tract housing and suburban stores of its recently built up outskirts soon narrows into the winding country road through the eastern edge of the Aveyron’s Ségala region. The road is beautiful, passing through lushly green woods and farmland, over narrow bridges crossing small streams, sharply turning as it goes up and down steep hills, occasionally coming out on a breathtaking overview of farm-dotted rolling landscape. Around one bend is an enormous crumbling old stone abbey clinging to the side of the road; around another is a small village center, a big old café on one side (almost in the road) and on the other, a riding stables doing booming business during the summer tourist season. Turning off this main road at a 300-degree angle up a steep hill and through a corner of a dense state forest is the narrow east-west road occupied by Ste Foy alone. Once out of the forest, one is in the township (commune) of Ste Foy, a territory covering about twelve square miles. The road continues to twist and turn through farm- and pastureland. On one side is Griac, the hill whose top is the high point of the township (900 meters elevation). A few farms and hamlets are visible on either side, across fields separated from the road by hedges. A tiny crumbling stone shack, a former cheese dairy, is the only building close to the road. During spring, summer, and early fall, the motorist is likely to be slowed to a halt by a flock of sheep in the road on their way to pasture. The shepherd—an old woman dressed in black, a leathery old man, a middle-aged adult, or a child—sometimes on a motorbike and always aided by a sheepdog, drives them to the side of the road and stands watching the intruder with a disconcertingly penetrating gaze. A smile and wave from the motorist are always returned, but the eyes continue to pierce until the car is out of sight.

After a final descent, the bourg, home to three hundred Ste Foyans, comes into sight. At first view, it is a jumble of old stone buildings, faded posters advertising dances, festivals, and bingo games in Ste Foy and neighboring communities, and two new small billboards: one welcoming visitors to the township, and the other warning gypsies away.

Further along, past the cemetery, garage, and newly enlarged cheese dairy (bustling with activity from December through June, closed down the rest of the year) is the couderc, a large empty plot of land owned by the township. Once a month, sheep pens are set up and parking areas marked off on the couderc for the sheep auction held there. Otherwise, except for an infrequent Saturday night dance in a tent set up for the occasion, or a game of boules played by a group of men on a summer evening or a Sunday, the couderc is usually deserted. Frozen, muddy, or dusty, according to season, its lack of vegetation makes it seem all the more vast and empty. If one continues on the road through the couderc, the bourg is soon left behind, and one is again in farmland, gradually descending to the low point of the township (700 meters). On either side of the couderc is a café and a row of houses. Beyond one row are fields and pastureland; beyond the other is the rest of the bourg.

Several streets descend into the bourg, quickly multiplying into a web of narrow unnamed streets, apparently going every which way, and often built on a steep incline. The houses, made of stone, are close to each other and to the street, though not necessarily aligned with it. The houses of the larger farms of the bourg form one side of a courtyard, surrounded on the other side by detached farm buildings and separated from the street by a stone wall. Other houses have barns attached to them, and in some sections of the village are long curving rows of attached houses, barns, stores, and workshops. Small open spaces in front of the church, the post office, and in several other places are actually the junctions and widening of several streets.

An aerial photograph of the bourg renders this confusing maze comprehensible. The oldest parts of the village are built in a roughly semicircular form, with the remaining tower of an old castle (abandoned for centuries) and the church at one of the higher points, rather than in the center. Another section is laid out to one side, and the dozen or so big new stucco houses, built since World War II, are scattered about the periphery. Many of the old stone buildings wedged into the center of the village have been abandoned in favor of the space available on the outskirts.

Six neighborhoods, indistinguishable to an outsider, are identified by Ste Foyans. These are named after a particular building, place, or function found in each. Three are designated by French names and three by names in the local Languedocian dialect: L’école (school), La poste (post office), La place (public square), Lo castel (castle), Lo barry (outskirts), Lo couderc. The new houses are considered part of the closest existing neighborhood. The neighborhood names are important as place names, and help to identify particular households by their geographical location, but the neighborhoods themselves have little or no existence as coherent social groups.

A number of tiny unmarked roads lead out from the bourg to the twenty-one isolated farms and nineteen hamlets of the community, where about five hundred Ste Foyans live. Two of the hamlets comprise sixteen households each, while the others are much smaller, composed of only two to five farm households. Each farm includes a house and several outbuildings—barns, stables, sheds—all grouped around a central yard. In some hamlets, the buildings of one farm are built very close to those of another, but more often they are well separated. On most farms there is a mixture of old stone buildings and recently built concrete or stucco structures. In only a few cases have no additions or improvements been made to the old buildings; in fewer still, a new or remodeled house and outbuildings have completely replaced the old structures. As in the bourg, old buildings are most often simply abandoned and new ones built outside of the original circular or semicircular arrangement.

Formerly, each farm had its own well or pump. Today, all have running water drawn from the community’s reservoir. The township has also provided paved roads leading to each farmhouse, as well as electricity throughout this outlying area.

Ste Foyans proudly refer to their community as one that is holding on (qui se tient). It stands in marked contrast, not only to the severely depopulated villages in the valleys just to its south, but to a number of smaller communities in its immediate area, which have declined dramatically with the exodus of their young people over the decades since World War II. Ste Foy’s population includes a number of young families, sons and daughters of generations of Ste Foyans who have elected to remain in their native community. The cafés, groceries, bakeries, garages, the post office, and the electrician’s shop in the bourg all attest to an active, relatively self-sufficient community life. All of these establishments are small. But many have remodeled modern exteriors, and they all do at least enough business to remain open. A number of voluntary organizations in the community—sporting club, family association, festival committee, Syndicat d’lnitiative, and others—seem to indicate an active interest in maintaining and improving the community by collective effort. The many new houses and other buildings scattered throughout the township suggest considerable prosperity and investment in the future. Ste Foy remains as distinctly Aveyronnais and as predominantly agricultural as it has ever been, but it is also a lively community participating quite successfully in the twentieth century and looking forward to the twenty-first.

Fig. P.2. An isolated farm (ostal) in Ste Foy’s outlying countryside (R. Bru)

TELLING STORIES

One of the most popular activities organized by Ste Foy’s Association Familiale is an annual one-day bus trip, initiated in the early 1970s. Most Ste Foyans have traveled very little outside of the region, are not very inclined to do so on their own, and worry about the consequences of abandoning their daily responsibilities (farm, family, or business) for too long. A one-day group outing to see a bit of the world is an attractive prospect, though, and each year’s trip draws a full busload, dominated by older people, but including a good number of younger couples and a sprinkling of adolescents.

The 1975 trip covered well over 500 kilometers between the 4:00 A.M. departure one summer day and the 2:00 A.M. return the next. The itinerary took the group due south to a Mediterranean beach in Roussillon, with stops at a winery near Perpignon and an African game reserve on the way down, and at a restaurant for a banquet on the way back.

At the beach, it turns out that only a half dozen of the travelers have brought swimsuits and go into the water, and only the bus driver knows how to swim. Most of the men go off to nearby cafés; some of the women come stand on the beach, limiting their movements in an attempt to keep sand out of their shoes; most of the older women remain in sight of the bus, standing in the shade of a building next to the parking lot.

Most of the day is spent riding on the bus, and that is the part that is most relaxed and enjoyable. People move about constantly, exchanging seats, making jokes for the entertainment of everyone, commenting on the landscape and crops going by outside. It is when the group has to leave the bus and enter someone else’s world that it becomes subdued and timid, only to burst back into action when safely on the road again.

After the long evening meal everyone is tired, and it is still a long way home. The bus is quiet for the first time all day, warm, and dark. Alphonse Castelnau starts telling stories in the Ste Foy dialect (patois). A farmer in his fifties considered one of the best storytellers of the community, he runs through a repertoire of conventionalized stories, embellishing them with his own touches. Sometimes someone adds a rejoinder or tries his hand at telling a story of his own. Almost all of the stories are funny, playing on an impossible predicament into which a very stupid peasant has gotten himself or in which a clever peasant has outwitted an arrogant person or animal. Everyone already knows the punchlines (and the rejoinders, too), but the pleasure in hearing them again, and in hearing the lilting dialect, is palpable. Ste Foy proceeds drowsily north along Route Nationale 112.

Ste Foyans, like many other people, talk a great deal about the old days. Most of them use a construction of the past to measure an inferior present or to legitimate present activities with reference to continuities with the past. In this view things have, on the whole, fallen apart and the loss can be calculated against an idealized past. It’s true we used to be poorer—very poor—but we were happier in those days. You used to hear singing from these hills and now all you hear is the noise of tractors. People used to watch out for each other and help out. Now all anyone cares about is getting ahead of everyone else. Some Ste Foyans use perceived change to measure improvement. In this view present activities can be legitimated by assertions of a rupture with the past. People here used to be all closed in on themselves and backward. Now that there’s more chance to get out and about, some of us have evolved and the others are going to have to catch up.

One institution that seems unanimously missed is the veillée. In Ste Foy, as throughout rural France, veillées were informal evening gatherings of neighbors or kin during the winter months when night fell before bedtime. Several households would get together by the hearth of one of them and pass the time playing cards, knitting, roasting chestnuts, and—in places like Ste Foy with a strong oral tradition—listening to the best storyteller in the group spin familiar yams. However change-in-general is interpreted, the veillée is a frequently cited example of a real loss, although I have never heard of any conscious attempts to revive it. In Ste Foy, as among many social scientists, the conventional explanation for its disappearance is the arrival of television (coupled with the rise of modern individualism), providing evening entertainment for each household and creating a propensity to stay home. A slightly closer look at Ste Foy, at least, indicates that the abandonment of veillées predated the arrival of television. Indeed, the first televisions, in the late 1950s, prompted a brief revival of veillée-like activity. Neighbors and relatives would spend the evening together at the homes of the first television owners, again sitting in the near-dark, telling jokes, exchanging gossip, roasting chestnuts, knitting, and enjoying common entertainment. Before long, virtually all households had acquired their own television and everyone went back to spending the evening at home.

Alphonse Castelnau’s story-telling on the Association Familiale trip hardly constituted a real veillée. It occurred, after all, on a bus that had made a day-long journey all over southwestern France, visiting a Mediterranean beach and an African game reserve. There were too many people on the bus, and they were not bound together by the ties of close kinship or neighborhood, even if under the circumstances the bond of shared Ste Foyenness temporarily felt unusually strong. Nonetheless, Castelnau’s impulse to launch into patois story-telling among a familiar crowd after a long day’s effort, when there was not much else to do in the dark, clearly resonated with his audience. It was the perfect end to a day that could be reconstructed as wonderful. The patois stories in the context of a day filled with beach, lions, tigers, and a long bus ride summarizes Ste Foy in a way that neither the stories nor the lions and tigers alone can; Ste Foyans participate fully in the wider world and have left much of their past behind them, but they have done so largely on their own terms and have by no means severed their ties to an old identity.

THE MONTHLY FAIR

Preparations for the fair (foire), held on a set day every month, begin the day before. Sheep pens are set up on the couderc, the large and usually empty expanse on one side of the bourg.

Early in the morning of fair day, hundreds of sheep farmers from the area and dealers from all of southern France converge on the couderc. Most of the farmers arrive in small bâchés (distant cousin to the pick-up truck) full of sheep or lambs, which are put into the couderc pens. The dealers have enormous trailer trucks designed for livestock transport. The two cafés bordering the couderc do a brisk business. At 7:00 A.M. the gong sounds and the live-stock auction gets under way. Each farmer stands by his pen as the dealers, wearing distinctive black smocks, move from one pen to another, feeling the animals, marking small notebooks, hopping out of a pen to make an offer to a waiting farmer. Farmer and dealer shout back and forth at each other, or make quiet staccato comments, offers, and counteroffers. Sometimes one of them turns dramatically away to stomp off, to be called back by the other or let go with a shrug of the shoulders. The deal is concluded when the farmer accepts a bit of paper on which the dealer has written his final offer. An eye is kept out for how others are faring, and sometimes a group collects to watch a negotiation under way; this is a spectator sport. Everything is said in the local dialect or by gesture in a highly specialized language known only to buyers and sellers of the region’s sheep. After an hour or so (more at the winter height of the season, less in the slow summer period), the auction is over. The pens are emptied as most of the sheep are loaded into the big transport trucks. A few are put back in bâchés to return home. Farmers line up by the transport trucks, bits of paper in hand, to collect what they have negotiated from the dealers. The couderc cafés are jammed with farmers and dealers, ready to sit down to a hearty breakfast of tripe and gros rouge (wine) and engage in boisterous assessment of the morning’s deals.

This image is unavailable due to digital copyright restrictions.

Fig. P.3. Fair day in Ste Foy, 1975: Monthly sheep auction on the couderc. The two men in the foreground negotiate a deal (merchant on the left, identifiable by his black smock), while a farmer begins loading his sheep into the transport truck behind them. (S. Rogers)

Meanwhile, dozens of ambulatory merchants’ trucks have pulled into Ste Foy and set up temporary shop. Farm suppliers, the farm credit bank, poultry wholesalers, and merchants of shoes, clothing, baked goods, fruits and vegetables, groceries, or hardware line the streets below the couderc. Men with nothing to sell at the livestock auction, women, and children who have finished their chores (or been let out of school) all converge on the village to do errands and catch up on the latest news from friends, neighbors, and relatives. Women buy chicks from the poultry wholesaler and sell him chickens, eggs, and rabbits. Men gather in the two cafés in the lower part of the village. People stand in chatting clusters everywhere. If the weather is good, there is a carnival atmosphere and the streets are jammed with people strolling about to look at goods on display and visit with each other.

By noontime the streets have emptied. The merchants are packing up to leave. Fair-goers have gone home for the midday meal and the afternoon’s work. The village goes quiet again for another month.

Fig. P.4. Fair day in Ste Foy, 1975: