They had come from the farms and the hamlets to the marquee pitched at the crossroads – a string of fairy lights over the ramped entrance. Every year on the same date the marquee is erected after the ditch sides and verges have been strimmed and mown.

At this time of the year the weather plays games with us. One day it teases in temps of 24 degrees or more; the next, the infamous Vent d’Autan dances wickedly, flinging the blossom; stripping newly emerged flower heads and their delicate petals.

Only a full blown tempete though would ever halt the annual fete repas – the breaking of bread in thanks for winter past and in anticipation of the joy and bounty of summer.

It has been held on this crossroads since land was tilled; since man first stumbled from his solitariness to the realisation that in community there is strength.

Without neighbours to call upon in both bad and good times, a harvest could be lost; livestock scattered, limbs broken; grain infested; the grape ungathered.

Of course, now the descendants of those fledgling families arrive in cars – pony and trap long gone. Behind them in their fine barns, they leave the awesome machines that do the work of 20 men in the fields

They come empty handed to the heated marquee these days for all is catered for with the price of the ticket.

Once, not too long ago, families would have brought crocks of cassoulet, bottled preserves, ham from the pig, pate from the wild boar killed in the hunt, and even rough eau de vie distilled in dark, secret places.

This year a new traiteur used handsome bow-tied, white-shirted men to serve, and mouths dropped open at such professionalism. The menu was simple: a salad of gessiers (look it up); maigret de canard, frites; apple pie in a flaky pastry; coffee plus wine. In all 20 euros.

Oh, and dancing later, much later.

Miriam, Alistair, Deb and I had decided on aperos at my house. Although 7.30pm was the repas kick-off time, there was no way we would eat before at least 9pm, possibly even 10pm.

Aperos under the marquee is still a more male thing. Pierrot, who doesn’t drink apart from one or two to toast the event, had been there since 5pm with a choice of Ricard or the Sangria-like punch which seems to travel to all repas.

We still live in a time where men gather at one end and women at the other. All kiss on meeting but the chasse men, the hunters, like to punch arms and pinch shoulders in matey gestures of virility.

Like 1950s housewives, the women sit at a table before the meal separates them and heads together whisper and titter with many looks thrown over shoulders.

Our places had been kept by the simple means of writing our names on the paper table cloth running the length of the trestle table.

There were three trestles in all and we reckoned between 80 and 100 people.

Having not attended for a good few years, it was a shock to enter the heated space as all eyes turned to appraise these latecomers.

There was warmth and simple curiosity in their gaze but above all an almost physical feeling of welcome. Come on in. Sit down. Raise your glass.

Already mildly over-excited at the sheer joy of being out and breathing well…er, and perhaps the aperos….I stared openly and happily at all the faces around and about me.

And I felt enormous affection knowing how many were familiar to me.

There was the large pompier who held my hands and promised me I wouldn’t die in his ambulance; there the woman from the Tabac where once I bought my cigarettes in 200 pack cartons. She winked at the e-cig in my hand and raised eyes to heaven in solidarity.

Other faces loomed as people left tables to say hello to friends spotted across the way and I recognised them from garden, Carrefour, or Mairies.

Alistair and Deb, both chasseurs, were pummelled and feted; Pierrot sat proudly looking upon us; and Miriam, who, rightly, believes no food is as good as hers, sent back her duck breast to be re-cooked.

It eventually went into a napkin for Baby also known as Brutus, her petted Yorkie. I gave her mine too….you know how I feel about bloody duck.

Oh, but the frites were good; and, for once, so was the vin rouge.

As we all linked arms to sway to the opening drinking song before the disco, yes, flashing lights at the far end, got underway, I cannot tell you how full my heart was.

All around the babble of the south – a French which has the syrupy resonance of the sun; a French still hinting at all the invaders who formed them.

And the locals themselves who can take years to accept you but once they do: You are family.

I think this repas was the first time I’ve fully understood the concept of ‘community.’

Fully understood that no man is truly an island. We are all interlocking pieces.

We just need to accept and enjoy it. I think, maybe, possibly, I finally have.