Traveling in Style : Dog Days in Provence : Fashion and Sporting Notes From the Menerbes Dog Show

Four years ago, former advertising executive Peter Mayle fled to the south of France and bought a 200-year-old farmhouse near the small town of Menerbes in the Luberon region. From there, he chronicled the idiosyncrasies of French provincial life in his 1990 bestseller, ‘A Year in Provence.’ This story, an account of an afternoon at a hunting-dog fair, is a chapter from his new book, ‘Toujours Provence,’ to be published this month.

The Menerbes stadium, a level field among the vines, is normally the setting for loud and enthusiastic matches played by the village soccer team. There might be a dozen cars parked under the pine trees, and supporters divide their attention between the game and their copious picnics. But for one day a year, usually the second Sunday in June, the stade is transformed. Bunting, in the Provencal blood-and-guts colors of red and yellow, is strung across the forest paths. An overgrown hollow is cleared to provide extra parking, and a screen of split bamboo is erected along the side of the road so that passersby can’t watch the proceedings without paying their 15-franc entrance fee. Because this is, after all, a major local event, a mixture of English dog show and Ascot, the Foire aux Chiens de Menerbes.

This year it started early and noisily. Just after 7, we were opening the doors and shutters and enjoying the one morning of the week when our neighbor’s tractor stays in bed. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, the valley was still. Peace, perfect peace. And then, half a mile away over the hill, the chef d’animation began his loudspeaker trials with an electronic yelp that ricocheted through the mountains and must have wakened half the Luberon.

“Allo , allo, un, deux, trois, bonjour Menerbes!” He paused to cough. It sounded like an avalanche. “Bon,” he said, “it works . “ He turned the volume down a notch and tuned into Radio Monte Carlo. A quiet morning was out of the question.

We had decided to wait until the afternoon before going to the show. By then the preliminary heats would be over, mongrels and dogs of dubious behavior would be weeded out, a good lunch would have been had by all, and the best noses in the business would be ready to do battle in the field trials.

At the stroke of noon, the loudspeaker went dead and the background chorus of barking was reduced to the occasional plaintive serenade of a hound expressing unrequited lust or boredom. The valley was otherwise silent. For two hours, dogs and everything else took second place to stomachs.

“Did everyone eat well?” bellowed the loudspeaker. The microphone amplified a half-suppressed belch. “Bon. Alors, on recommence.” We started off along the track that leads to the stade.

A shaded clearing above the car park had been taken over by a group of dealers who were selling specialist breeds, or hybrids, dogs of particular and valuable skills--trackers of the wild boar, hunters of rabbits, detectors of quail and woodcock. They were strung like a living necklace on chains beneath the trees, twitching in their sleep. Their owners looked like Gypsies: slender, dark men with gold teeth flashing through dense black mustaches.

One of them noticed my wife admiring a wrinkled black-and-tan specimen scratching his ear lazily with a huge back paw. “Il est beau, eh?” said the owner, shining his teeth at us. He bent down and took hold of a handful of loose skin behind the dog’s head. “He comes in his own sac a main. You can carry him home.” The dog raised his eyes in resignation at having been born with a coat several sizes too big, and his paw stopped in mid-scratch. My wife shook her head. “We already have three dogs.” The man shrugged, and let the skin drop in heavy folds. “Three, four--what’s the difference?”

A little farther along the track, the sales presentation became more sophisticated. On top of a hutch made from plywood and wire netting, a printed card announced: “Fox-terrier, imbattable aux lapins et aux truffes (unbeatable for hunting rabbits and truffles) . Un vrai champion.” The champion, a short, stout brown and white dog, was snoring on his back, all four stumpy legs in the air. We barely slowed down, but it was enough for the owner. “Il est beau, eh?” He woke the dog and lifted him from the hutch. “Regardez!” He put the dog on the ground and took a slice of sausage from the tin plate that was next to an empty wine bottle on the bonnet of his van.

“Chose extraordinaire,” he said. “When these dogs are hunting, nothing will distract them. They become rigide. You press the back of the head and the rear legs will rise into the air.” He put the sausage down, covered it with leaves and let the dog root for it, then placed his foot on the back of the dog’s head and pressed. The dog snarled and bit him on the ankle. We moved on.

The stade was recovering from lunch, the small folding tables under the trees still scattered with scraps of food and empty glasses. A spaniel had managed to jump onto one of the tables and clear it up, and was asleep with its chin in a plate. Spectators moved with the slowness that comes from a full belly and a hot day, picking their teeth as they inspected the offerings of the local arms dealer.

On a long trestle table, 30 or 40 guns were laid neatly in a row, including the new sensation that was attracting great interest. It was a matte black pump-action riot gun. If there were ever to be a mass uprising of bloodthirsty killer rabbits in the forest, this was undoubtedly the machine one needed to keep them in order. But some of the other items puzzled us. What would a hunter do with brass knuckle-dusters and sharpened steel throwing stars, as used, so a hand-printed card said, by the Japanese ninja? It was a selection that contrasted violently with the rubber bones and squeaky toys on sale at English dog shows.

It is always possible, when dogs and owners gather together en masse, to find living proof of the theory that they grow to resemble each other. In other parts of the world, this may be confined to physical characteristics--ladies and basset hounds with matching jowls, whiskery little men with bush eyebrows and Scotties, emaciated ex-jockeys with their whippets. But, France being France, there seems to be a deliberate effort to emphasize the resemblance through fashion, by choosing ensembles that turn dog and owner into coordinated accessories.

There were two clear winners in the Menerbes concours d’elegance , perfectly complementary and visibly very pleased with the attention they were attracting from less modish spectators. In the ladies’ category, a blonde with a white shirt, white shorts, white cowboy boots and a white miniature poodle on a white lead picked her way fastidiously through the dust to sip, with little finger cocked, an Orangina at the bar. The ladies of the village, sensibly dressed in skirts and flat shoes, looked at her with the same critical interest they usually reserve for cuts of meat at the butcher’s.

The male entries were dominated by a thickset man with a waist-high Great Dane. The dog was pure, shiny black. The man wore a tight black T-shirt, even tighter black jeans and black cowboy boots. The dog wore a heavy chain-link collar. The man wore a necklace like a small hawser, with a medallion that thudded against his sternum with every step, and a similarly important bracelet. By some oversight, the dog wasn’t wearing a bracelet, but they made a virile pair as they posed on the high ground. The man gave the impression of having to control his massive beast by brute force, yanking on the collar and growling. The dog, as placid as Great Danes normally are, had no idea he was supposed to be vicious or restive, and observed smaller dogs passing underneath him with polite interest.

We were wondering how long the Great Dane’s good humor would last before he ate one of the tiny dogs that clustered like flies around his back legs when we were ambushed by Monsieur Mathieu and his raffle tickets. For a mere 10 francs, he was offering us a chance to win one of the sporting and gastronomic treasures donated by local tradesmen: a mountain bike, a microwave oven, a shotgun, or a maxi saucisson (sausage). I was relieved that puppies weren’t among the prizes. Monsieur Mathieu leered. “You never know what might be in the saucisson ,” he said. And then, seeing the horror on my wife’s face, he patted her. “ Non, non. I’m joking . “

In fact, there were enough puppies on display to make a mountain of saucissons. They lay or squirmed in piles under almost every tree, on blankets, in cardboard cartons, in homemade kennels and on old sweaters. It was a testing time as we went from one furry, multilegged heap to the next. My wife is highly susceptible to anything with four feet and a wet nose, and the sales tactics of the owners were shameless.

At the slightest sign of interest, they would pluck a puppy from the pile and thrust it into her arms, where it would promptly go to sleep. “ Voila! How content he is!” I could see her weakening by the minute.

We were saved by the loudspeaker introducing the expert who was to give the commentary on the field trials. He was in tenue de chasse --khaki cap, shirt and trousers--with a deep tobacco voice. He was unused to speaking into a microphone and, being Provencal, he was unable to keep his hands still. Thus his explanation came and went in intermittent snatches as he pointed the microphone helpfully at various parts of the field while his words disappeared into the breeze.

The competitors were lined up at the far end, half a dozen pointers and two mud-colored dogs of undiscernible ancestry. Small clumps of brushwood had been randomly placed around the field. These were the bosquets in which the game--a live quail that was held aloft by the quail handler for inspection--was to be hidden.

The hunter’s microphone technique improved enough for us to hear him explain that the quail would be tethered in a different bosquet for each competitor, and that it would not be killed (unless it was scared to death). The dogs would simply indicate the hiding place, and the fastest would win.

The quail was hidden, and the first competitor unleashed. He passed by two clumps with barely a sniff and then, still yards away from the third, stiffened and stopped.

“Aha! Il est fort, ce chien,” boomed the chasseur. The dog looked up for a second, distracted by the noise, before continuing his approach. He was now walking in slow motion, placing one paw on the ground with exaggerated care before lifting another, his neck and head stretched toward the bosquet , unwavering despite the chasseur’s admiring comments about his concentration and the delicacy of his movements.

Three feet away from the petrified quail, the dog froze, one front paw raised, with head, neck, back and tail in a perfect straight line.

“Tiens! Bravo!” said the chasseur , and started to clap, forgetting that he had a microphone in one hand. The owner retrieved his dog, and the two of them returned to the starting point in a triumphant competition trot. The official timekeeper, a lady in high heels and an elaborate black and white dress with flying panels, marked the dog’s performance on a clipboard. The quail handler dashed out to replant the quail in another bosquet , and the second contestant was sent on his way.

He went immediately to the bosquet recently vacated by the quail, and stopped.

“Ah, oui,” said the chasseur , “the scent is still strong there. But wait.” We waited. The dog waited. Then he got tired of waiting, and possibly annoyed at being sent out on a fool’s errand. He lifted his leg on the bosquet and went back to his owner.

The quail handler moved the unfortunate quail to a new hiding place, but it must have been a particularly pungent bird, because dog after dog stopped at one or another of the empty clumps, head cocked and paw tentatively raised, before giving up. An old man standing next to us explained the problem. The quail, he said, should have been walked on its lead from one bosquet to the next so that it left a scent. How else could a dog be expected to find him? Dogs are not clairvoyants. The old man shook his head and made soft clicking noises of disapproval with his tongue against his teeth.

The final competitor, one of the mud-colored dogs, had been showing signs of increasing excitement as he watched the others being sent off, whining with impatience and tugging at his lead. When his turn came, it was obvious that he had misunderstood the rules. Disregarding the quail and the bosquets , he completed a circuit of the stade at full speed before racing into the vines, followed by his bellowing owner. “Oh la la,” said the chasseur. “Un locomotif. Too bad . “

Later, as the sun dipped and the shadows grew longer, Monsieur Dufour, president of La Philosophe hunting club, presented the prizes before settling down with his colleagues to a gigantic paella. Long after dark, we could hear the distant sounds of laughter and clinking glasses and, somewhere in the vines, the man shouting for his mud-colored dog.

GUIDEBOOK: MENERBES, FRANCE

Getting there: Menerbes, between Avignon and Aix-en-Provence, is an ancient Provencal village at the foot of the Luberon Mountains with spectacular views of the surrounding countryside. Few American tourists visit the area, but it is full of towns rich in charm and character--among them Bonnieux, Gordes and Rousillon--and worth exploring by car on a day trip from either Avignon or Aix. Menerbes itself is about a half-hour drive from Avignon.

For more information: The French Government Tourist Office has a number, (900) 990-0040, that costs 50 cents per minute, or write to the office at 9454 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 303, Beverly Hills 90212.