Other Sport / Features
A perfectly splendid game of petanque in Queen Square
We’re off piste before we’ve even started.
Having been promptly told off for calling the game ‘boules’ instead of pétanque, and having gotten the giggles when asked to handle strangers’ balls, we’ve now thrown the cochonnet (meaning ‘little pig’ in French) off the court and onto the road.
Solid start, team.
is needed now More than ever
A bunch of strangers are rolled together on a sunny evening on Queen Square. Set up by Alliance Française de Bristol, which primarily teaches French lessons, this annual event of a game of pétanque allows Bristolians to dive into French culture. As dozens of people laze about on the grass around the square, with bikes rolling past every few minutes, it doesn’t seem too far away from a small French village.
“It’s really good exercise for them,” my grandma says over the phone when I tell her about the game, “all that bending and stretching.” Her optimism is difficult to believe, as it’s revealed that there’s a special magnet used for picking up the boules, to prevent anyone having to bend down and pick them up. How very physical.
Though some take it seriously, it is hard not to see the funny side when playing a sport largely reserved for the generation that can barely stand up from a chair without making a strong ‘oof’ sound. The lawyers on another patch of gravel seem to have the right idea as they down large glasses of wine whilst playing.
I’m teamed up with Rebecca, a woman who has been going to Alliance Française for twenty years. We’re facing two men who weren’t entirely sure what they were coming along to, and are particularly surprised when the event turns out to be largely conducted in French.
Putting our collective scepticism of whether it’s really a ‘sport’ or not aside, we begin, and we start to warm to the grandpa-game, learning snippets of French as we go.
The volleyballers on the other side of Queen Square may look like they’re being more athletic, but it’s just as deceptive as the distance between the boule and the cochonnet. Those tight-abbed beach players should see the skill with which we throw a tirer, and the wrist strength needed for a pointer. Thought the Olympics and Paralympics looked tough? I can practically feel the six pack popping up. There’s even a climactic moment of a previously broken finger getting nudged by a ball, but because we’re athletes we carry on through the agonising pain and play on.
My partner and I are, in all honesty, probably not going to make it far in a career in the sport. We try, and she gets one boule touching the cochonnet, which we pretend is from skill rather than luck. As we climb up the scoreboard, les garçons stay steadily infront. One round looks set to push us into the lead, but as we go to inspect the balls and do the reliable step-measuring-test, it appears that perspective tricked us into a delusion of winning.
As the guys begin to race ahead, one of them offers me pity help. We agree that Plan A is for me to get my ball closer to the cochonnet (the usual aim of all throws) and Plan B is for my opponent to knock it closer to my own ball, giving us a generous step up so that they don’t completely smash us. Plan A doesn’t quite work out, as my talents don’t appear to lie in the French sport. The second plan almost works as my friendly opponent hits the cochonnet, but fails miserably as it only knocks it closer to his boule.
Interacting with strangers is often proven to make people happier and more open, and this evening is testament to that. There have been very few occasions in which worse petanque players have graced Bristol’s green. Nevertheless, it allowed a bunch of strangers an opportunity to brush up on their dodgy GCSE French, joke around and soak up some sunshine.
This city is a huge fan of reviving vintage ideas, so perhaps I should abandon my cynicism and suggest that pétanque will be the next big thing in Bristol. You heard it here first, long, long before it was cool.
