Mark and I are invited to perform at a festival in the Camargue, a coastal region which covers 360 square miles in southern France. We are overawed by the extraordinary honour to be the only non-gypsies in attendance.
A gypsy festival has been held in Saintes Maries de la Mer every year since 1448. The Camargue is not only famous for being western Europe’s largest river delta, but also for the wild white horses which gallop through the waves of the sea.
One day, while Mark is playing endless gladiatorial guitar riffs with the men, I sit with the women, all too conspicuous with my blond hair. When they invite me to sing, I keep my rendition short. My songs are far too wistful for them.
When they begin to sing to me, the air is ripped apart by ululations and cries, their songs coloured by the resilience, grit and determination they’ve had to develop to survive gypsy persecution.
Stunned by the toughness of these amazing people, we finally return, exhausted, to our gentler lives,
Soon after, I received my second proposal. This time, in a tent on the beach. It is in English and there is no doubt about the meaning.
To my shame, I laugh.
Then I say a resounding no.
And that is the end of that particular story…
Image by Jonathan Farber – Unsplash
