Among the many charms of Languedoc-Roussillon is a pig named Belle, writes Diana Noonan.
If ever you find yourself tempted to skip Languedoc-Roussillon (the ''lesser known'' south of France), and head, instead, for what is commonly considered the more sexy Provence, I do hope Belle the pig will change your mind.
I met her at a fete while staying in Saint Andre des Sangonis, a pretty wine village close to the Herault River, and just 30 minutes' drive from the vibrant Mediterranean city of Montpellier.
A veteran performer, Belle was the fete's star attraction.
It was midsummer when I was in Saint Andre, reaching 28degC by 11 am.
In the square, where old men took it in shifts to congregate on benches beside the petanque court, stout-trunked plain trees and the church's belfry provided the only shade.
By midday, the streets were empty. Everyone was at home, hiding from the sun.
Like mad dogs and Englishmen, my husband and I shunned the siesta, preferring instead to wallow in the lukewarm water of the deep Herault Gorge, a picnic spot popular with locals, or to drift lazily downstream towards Pont du Diable, considered one of the oldest medieval bridges in France.
In the evenings, as the days cooled off, we lurched to one of the many temporary country restaurants that pop up in this part of the world during the summer months.
But idleness was not ours for long.
One day, while wandering through the outskirts of the village, helping ourselves to wild figs and blackberries, we spotted a poster tacked to a lamppost.
The Saint Andre summer fete was just a week away, and promising not only an evening re-enactment of a local legend (something to do with a pig and a bomb - all accompanied by fireworks) but also, on the morning of the same day, an 11km ''Strides Vigneronnes'' - a competitive ''run through the vines''.
Languedoc-Roussillon is famous for its vineyards, which are often referred to as ''patchwork'' because so many different grape varieties are cultivated together.
The land around Saint Andre is no exception, and growing right up to the edge of the village, fields of leafy vines were weighed down with fat black grapes sweltering in the sun.
Between them burbled refreshing little irrigation channels.
Lured by the novelty of running through vineyards, and the rumour that competitors were treated to wine-tasting en route, we registered for the event, and set about training by running, each day, to one of the several surrounding villages.
Medieval hamlets pepper the hills of Languedoc-Roussillon.
They are as picturesque as any in Provence, but in complete working order, and home to the many labourers who work on the surrounding farms.
In a region where tourism plays second fiddle to horticulture, we were more likely to encounter a tractor than a tour bus as we jogged along the narrow roads.
With one possible exception.
Saint Guilhem le Desert, described officially as one of France's most beautiful villages, and classed since 1999 as a national treasure, is situated on the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela, and consequently attracts hordes each day in the summer.
We ran to it in the very early morning, and to a background of music played on its abbey's famous pre-French Revolution organ, sipped our coffee in the square as pigeons cooed above our heads and the village awoke.
Our ''training'' (there was only so much one could do each day before the heat made it impossible to move) also took us to nearby Gignac, a walled town of cobbled streets but with a good-sized market stuffed with the usual herb-encrusted cheeses and tiny roasted birds.
We concentrated, instead, on stalls brimming over with local olives, and oily peppers bursting with colour, and tried not to think about weight-gain off-setting the advantages of fitness.
Alas, on the day of the ''Strides Vigneronnes'' itself, the ''wine tasting on the run'' rumour turned out to be just that.
But perhaps it was for the best, given the temperatures.
Compensation came in the form of a trophy acknowledging us as the competitors who had travelled the greatest distance to attend and several bottles of local plonk, which we happily carted home.
That afternoon, we did take a siesta but we were back in the square in the evening for the fete itself, and our meeting with Belle.
Diners were already seated at trestle tables under the plane trees when we arrived, slurping mussels and quaffing frites and wine.
It was all ''tres jolie'' with music, games for the children and fancy dress for anyone who wanted to don a medieval costume.
But Belle stole the show.
She waddled (at 305kg she could do little else) into the square behind her adoring keeper (whom we'll call ''Monsieur'') at about 9pm, accompanied by two farm dogs.
Other than when they attempted to take from her mouth the pieces of bread Monsieur offered her (rather too frequently, we thought, given her proportions) as rewards, she seemed quite fond of her canine companions.
• Belle was extremely well-behaved, responding impeccably (with the possible exception of the odd lunge towards a dining table or rubbish bin) to Monsieur's little whistles, or the taps he made on the ground with the end of a long staff.
She stopped, when required, so children and interested adults could pet her, and lay down on command (although it was rather difficult for her to get up again).
If children came too close to her face, she was given to a little grunting, to which Monsieur responded by gently moving the offender back.
He would then offer Belle his bare arm so she could sniff it and be reassured her master was still close by.
She must have relied upon scent a good deal, especially to find her way around because her eyes were almost completely covered by her enormous ears.
Her understanding of commands was acute, and with her nose forever on the ground as if she were searching for something to gobble (which she was), she may well have been a truffle hunter.
After an hour of parading and being petted, Belle disappeared for a short time while the re-enactment of the legend took place.
A ''bomb'', accompanied by fireworks, was hurled from the town's illuminated tower, and then, suddenly, there she was, back again, bringing up the rear of a rustic parade that included an enormous black pantomime pig, and the village's rather rumpty brass band.
Totally unfazed by the commotion, Belle did a quick round of the dining tables in search of stray frites then followed Monsieur (accompanied, now, by his wife - a well-dressed woman with a very nice handbag) through the streets towards the outskirts of the village.
The dogs followed.
It was by then quite late, and as we were also going home that way, we tagged along behind, expecting Belle and company to board one of those very small French vans all farmers in the region seem to drive.
But her size (she was almost 2m long) may have precluded this option because, after Monsieur had extracted from the mouth of one of his dogs a dead pigeon which it had found down a side alley, and Bella had momentarily taken a wrong turning while her master was distracted, the party continued on its way through the streets.
It was as we watched all this from behind that we realised Belle, forced to go a little faster than she had in the square, had adopted the gait of an articulated bus - the sort that concertinas mid-carriage in order to manoeuvre around tight corners.
If you go
Languedoc-Roussillon, in the southwest of France, is just a stone's throw from the Camargue Regional Park, an internationally recognised bird-watchers' paradise. It is also home to the magnificent fortified town and Unesco World Heritage site of Carcassonne, and the southern reaches of the Canal Midi, a route favoured by cycling and barge tourists. Close enough to ''head for the Med'' for a day at the beach, and offering a taste of authentic French rural life, the region has all the charm of Provence without the tourist hype. And with Belle the pig bound to make another appearance or two at the Saint Andre des Sangonis fete, why would you not want to go there?
