A fete awaits you

“The whole of France will be playing music tonight,”

So said a staff member to a group of English guests at the hotel.

It was true. Since 1982, on the day of the summer solstice, the Fête de la Musique has been taking place every year in France. It simply means that anyone that can play music is invited to do so, for free, any place they wish. Musicians will perform everywhere: cafes, street corners, public buildings and more. Generally they are invited to play in open space. In other words, on this day you might hear on street corners highly acclaimed musicians who usually perform at the opera. The event's original motto was "sharing, diversity and creativity". Well, so much for intentions.

Although I didn’t see any opera stars unless they were underplaying themselves, there was some sharing, diversity and creativity. Stages were erected in almost every square we encountered but it was on the 21^st June that we came across the music.

In Amelie les Bains where we were staying, it was at first a bit of a disappointment. Two bars had singers but only with club style multitrack accompaniments - a kind of karaoke. Both bars were close to each other and so it was possible at a point equidistant between both bars to hear the worst of both worlds.

But then just as it could not get worse, it got better. Outside the third bar was a live band comprising three saxophones, two trumpets, a trombone, a lady and a drummer. It was the drummer which caught my fascination. His kit was set upon a unique home built trolley, the five wheels of which came from a child’s pushchair (two), a porter’s trolley (two) and a child’s bicycle (one). Once he had arrived at the next pitch, he chocked the child’s bike wheel with a block of wood. He removed a folding bar stool from the left hand side of the kit and placed it behind the drum kit. He extracted his sticks from a basket at the right hand side and he was ready. The exact role of the lady, dressed in gold, as opposed to the red and black of the musicians, was not clear. She contributed some percussion support for the drummer whether he was in need of it or not.

They played a rare mixture from what sounded like local folk tunes and they finished their first set with Randy Newman’s “You Can Keep Your Hat On”. A young man in the small crowd gave an impromptu and energetic strip, with his shorts ending up above him on the bar's sun awning. Not wearing a hat, however, he kept his pants on.

The band moved on. Their progress was now being barred by a dozen or so older people who clearly wanted none of the pop stuff they had just heard. The band was stopped and they old gang of band hi jackers wanted cha cha. A quick chat amongst the band while the drummer set out his kit, a brief consultation of their A6 note books, and the band were off. The dancers shimmied and shuffled, the watchers tapped and swayed to the music.

After this initial opening and being aware of the dancing intent of the crowd, the band continued. The dance this time was for individuals. It reminded me a little of the Lambeth walk. It was led by a dapper man with black shiny shoes and neat clothes. His seemingly weightless feet slipped and stepped while his arms and dainty hands with fingers pointing kept the upper body balanced. Others joined him but they ensured he kept the centre of the stage. The others were of lesser degrees of elegance and style. Next to him was a large man dressed in shorts and a sky blue vest. He wore chunky sandals. He was the sartorial opposite of Monsieur Dapper. Needless to say the sartorial spectrum was not as wide as the terpsichorean one.

But he was en fete. He had captured the moment.

The band remained in their spot and played on. It was a treat to be a witness to such exuberance which was as good humoured as it was entertaining. I returned to the hotel.

Summer's here

It only takes a flash of sunshine in the summer months from April onwards for many to peel away the layers. Sockless, shorted, tee shirted or vested, the streets are flocked by many who equate sunshine with warmth and high temperatures.

They must be cold but no one is admitting it. Britain is not a warm country. We buy in to t the marketing dream sold to us that outdoor living is the British way. Do not be fooled.

Occasionally yes, the temperatures rise and can stay high. But it is not something you can predict with great precision or for how long it will last. The only certainty with a good spell of summer weather is that it will end. And end dramatically.

We are persuaded from all corners that summer is here. Garden centres fill their floors with outdoor furniture and barbecues. Supermarkets extol the benefits of outdoor living with cool clothes, cool wines and crisp salads. And we buy it in. We have it all at hand for the perfect summer - except for the perfect summer.

How are we hood winked? The shrinking world enables us all to experience the great outdoors of summer. Sitting out until late in the evening dressed coolly and loosely is what people in pleasant climates do. We all want so much to do it here, we are conned by the first rays of sun and blue skies, even thought the temperature barely nudges the low twenties.

The summer season (November to March) in Sydney has temperatures regularly hitting the mid-90s Fahrenheit (35°C). November and March are favoured by visitors wanting sunshine without the searing heat. Even on winter days there is warmth, with temperatures regularly in the 70-80 degree Fahrenheit range (21-27°C). That is good for a British summer. I can recall an Australian telling me that Poms arriving in the Australian winter to settle, dressed in shorts and tee shirts, to the amusement of the locals. In Europe too, temperatures in July and August range from 86ºF (30ºC) during the day to 72ºF (22ºC) at night in the Greek resorts, with other Mediterranean resorts being close behind.

A glance at our holiday history reveals a more reverent attitude to the summer season. Holidaying was done in Britain for the vast majority. Only the wealthy jetted off - not they did jet anywhere- to the exotic South of France and other balmy Mediterranean resorts to enjoy guaranteed warmth. Even then they retained a dress dignity when not disporting on the beach.

Back home the huddled masses remained huddle masses, crowding the beaches around our temperate isle. People are photographed on beaches in suits and overcoats. Why? Because it was generally cold, and sitting around for a whole day, you need to wrap up. A man might slip off his jacket occasionally to face the weather in shirt and waistcoat. He might even remove the tie and roll up the trouser legs to reveal bare feet.

Women similarly peeled the odd layer, stockings, cardigan to feel the benefit of the fresh air. Oh, there were those who braved the waters in skimpier wear, but the weather must have been decidedly warmer. (Today young people enter the sea all year round but for most of that year they wear a wet suit - a true acknowledgement that it gets cold here.)

Perhaps we are the ultimate optimists. Here in Britain, we now have little opportunity to show the defiance that is one of the characteristics that many say made Britain great. By showing that we can still do summer in the meagre share we get of that season, we are displaying the in - your - face character that many attribute to the people of this island.

Personally, I'd sooner wrap up