A war of some kind breaks out most years around here.

Last summer we had the ceps war, with vigilantes in the woods chasing off outsiders who were nicking the mushrooms and selling them on the markets. Eventually the police got involved, patrolling the roads, looking for strange cars and vans tucked up dirt roads or hidden under trees.

Many a Keystone Cops-style chase enlivened the long Lomagne evenings and Roselyn would entertain me with the latest goings-on; eyes aflame and arms flapping widely as she acted out both parts. At that time, being a captive audience in a wheelchair, it was my highpoint of the week, on a par with the best of Corrie and EastEnders. As the story of the chase reached its denouement she'd often twirl me around in my chair for further dramatic effect. Sadly, with the bizarre mix of weather we've had, this year's harvest – the early girolles – has been pitiful and many of the favourite family plots have yielded little more than a handful.

But now, as Roselyn couldn't wait to tell me, "It is war in Lavit." Anyone familiar with Clochemerle (the 1934 French satire set in a village where mayhem and madness ensue over the siting of a urinal in the square) will know how quickly passions flare in the breasts of the rural French. Locked behind the shutters in the folds of the hills when winter closes down the land, slights and slurs are brooded upon and nit-picked, assuming alarming proportions when the sun comes up. And that's just me. God knows what it's like for the locals.

Thus begin the feuds; families still pitted against families many years after the origin of the quarrel has been forgotten or embellished in handed-down tales; but as bitter and personal for all that.

So far Lavit's war is not a feud. It's a skirmish that is dividing the village and has already incurred the wrath of the mayor, who has personally intervened.

I wondered if there would be trouble when a third boulangerie opened in what was half of the old bistro. Diagonally opposite in the halle square is another which co-ordinates its opening hours with the one at the roundabout on the edge of the village. Well, it would, since both are owned by the same formidable woman – a tall, stern figure who treated me with such disdain on my first visit within weeks of arriving that I've never been back.

Soon word got round that the new baker, an out-of-towner from the Gers, was a true master with both bread and cakes, his patisserie on a par with the legendary city artists in cream and chocolate; his breads so fresh you could float after eating them. On top of that he was charming and not bad looking either.

Madame watched her trade drop off apart from Wednesdays, when his shop closed. Then the villagers would creep shame-faced back to her shop. The French obsession with bread means they buy it twice a day, staggering out with sometimes six or more sticks at a time. The clever ones juggled their visits, buying equally from Madame and the new man. Slyly, hedging all bets, they told both they were the best in Lavit.

One morning, as the cars from the farms filled the square for the first baguettes and croissants of the day, the locals were stunned (but no doubt deeply delighted) to see the new boulangerie daubed in white paint. As usual, there are different versions of what was written, but the message was clear: get out of town now. We don't want you. Signed: the clients of Madame X.

The last bit wasn't clever. Striding from his office, the mayor, so I'm told, went puce with fury on seeing the vandalism in his newly-renovated centre.

As we don't mess about here with going through appropriate channels or informing police before getting involved, particularly if we're the all-powerful mayor, he took direct action in full view of the happy crowd.

Straight into Madame's shop he went, followed by the crowd. No question of innocent until proven guilty. "You've got half an hour to get that off," he told her. "I will NOT have this. And if ever you pull a stunt like this again, I'll close you down. Both shops." Within the half-hour, a teenager hired by Madame had scrubbed the message clear.

Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Roselyn said, "She's a very proud person but this will have taken her down a peg or two.

"She's having to smile a bit more now. I try to divide between them to be fair but she sold me day-old bread the other day. Patric was furious.

"But when I got back to the new man, he didn't have a crust left – people had bought the lot before it was cold from the oven."

I tried to peer into his shop the other day when it was closed. I saw nothing because heavy shutters were pulled over inside. Perhaps he fears for his windows.

The village waits for round two. n