(Sunday 6th October 2024)

A few people have already gathered outside the mairie in the old town.  The statue of Saint Réparate stands ready in a white boat filled with lilies and red roses, eyes downcast, holding a silver olive branch. Her soft brown hair waves down her back, a scarlet cloak over her modest white shift.  Except for a small crown sitting at a slight angle on her head, she wears no adornments.  This is no Italian or Spanish saint overdressed and overjewelled, but the patron saint of a city that began as a fishing village.  At the stern, five flags with the city’s coat of arms: the crowned red eagle dominating three hills.

I see people in bright red hooded habits, a silver cross hanging from their necks.  They are soon joined by people in similar cassocks, only in white.  The large camera I carry gives me the nerve to ask a man standing next to me who these characters are.  “Penitents,” he replies good-humouredly.  “Red, white, black and blue.  The confraternity in red was the one helping pilgrims heading to Jerusalem, the ones in white were the hospitallers, the ones in black took care of the dead during the Plague and the ones in blue – ” he looks around, “there aren’t really any left. They looked after fatherless children.”

There are few tourists.  Those present are mostly locals and I catch fragments of conversation in Niçard dialect.  I used to hear it frequently when I was a child here, but I’ve hardly come across it since we moved here a few weeks ago.  Apparently a sub-dialect of Provençal, it sounds like a Franco-Italian hybrid.  I love living in a city where some people still speak the original language, a language unique to this place.

As more people assemble, dancers of the Nice folk dancing group Ciamada Nissarda start trickling in. The women and girls with their hair gathered in a tight bun, frilled blouses, black bodices and red and white striped skirts.  They wear richly embroidered black shawls and aprons.  The men have red caps, waist-length brown jackets and short trousers that match the women’s skirts. 

While waiting for all the participants to get organised, the woman accordionist plays tunes of Edith Piaf songs.  Somehow, their Parisian nature is at odds with the surroundings.  Nice doesn’t feel like typical France to me.  And it is certainly poles apart from Paris.  

Finally, everybody who has to be ready is ready and the procession starts.  The mayor is here, the dancers stand in line, the members of the confraternity have taken their places.  The boat with the statue of the patron saint is pulled through the narrow streets of the old town.  I am surprised by the relatively small attendance.  I guess the tourists don’t know about this, and the locals have seen the celebrations many times already.  Perhaps the forecast of rain has also put some people off.  The rain is a big deal here, a reason for not doing things.  As someone from England, this always makes me smile.

Once the statue of the saint is safely in the Cathedral and Mass has been said, it’s time for  the festivities, with traditional Niçois dancing in Place Rossetti.  I notice that the crowd of onlookers has grown significantly.  The secular side of the festivities appears to have attracted more of an audience.  As always at such events, my heart starts beating in time with the drum.  I try to take as many pictures as I can without getting in anyone’s way.  The rain has held off.  Of course.  It couldn’t have rained on the feast of the patron saint of the city.  Nice wouldn’t have stood for it.

Scribe Doll