The unofficial “Over 60s” social club for the men of Angoulême meets on daily basis, just outside of house we lived in for the summer. They are a resilient bunch, with no need for any sort of a club house. The only structures they require is a decorative fence and something of a rectangle, but this could all be tossed by the wayside as long as they have a small carry bag, packed with arsenal for the day’s leisure activity.

We lived opposite the boules “playing fields”.

Every morning, as I walked to the local market (we never had the foresight, or need, to shop for anything more than one day at a time), I would pass these men – although I think they were oblivious to it, so intent was the concentration on the game. At first I thought it was sweet – a relaxing pastime – but then I soon came to realise that this was an intense competition, a running battle. Day in, day out these gaulish gladiators would either attempt to use the same old dirty tricks, or accuse each other of cheating. Comme d’habitude.

What was even funnier is that they formed such a formidable force, that any younger-generation boules aspirants were forced from the field until late afternoon or early evening. Even if there was an empty playing pitch, no one seemed brave enough to show off their skill – or flout their lack of – when the boules brigade were around.

However, it was of a totally different character as families with children or young people with six packs of beer assumed the stage. Of an evening, there was to be no measuring with string, but more approximation, a little bit more swearing, and a lot more whooping with glee.