Boule is a very gentle game.
Or it might be pétanque.
References are vague on the differences between the two.
At the Plough and Fleece, in Horningsea, they play pétanque in a gravel rectangle bordered by old railway sleepers. They (they all seem to be very serious men) take the game very seriously. Do their lives (or their pockets) depend on the outcome?
In Fen Ditton it’s all very different. For one thing they are all very much older. They also seem to be so much happier. They play on grass, where the roll of the boule is unpredictable.
Perhaps the fundamental difference is grass and gravel.
In the gravel pit, accuracy of throwing is everything. The boule do not roll, even an inch (Sorry. Centimetre). Where you throw it is where it lands, and where it scores (or not). The result is greeted with dead silence; whether approval or scorn is impossible to tell.
The silent, serious men drink beer, from pint glasses. Beer: that ghastly brew, the sole purpose of which was to disinfect tainted water.
On grass you may be dead accurate as the boule leaves your hand, but then the grass and the ground take control. Players squeal with delight, or howl with anguish as the boule meanders around the imperceptible bumps and hollows.
The excitable pensioners eat fish and chips (the A10 chip van stops nearby, by special appointment to MargaretW) and mostly drink wine, from plastic glasses. Wine: that heavenly nectar, the sole purpose of which was to disinfect tainted water.
Then there are the jokes.
Just how many variations of a risqué joke can twelve retired people make on the word ‘boule’? And every one is so very, very funny.
Or it might be pétanque.
References are vague on the differences between the two.
At the Plough and Fleece, in Horningsea, they play pétanque in a gravel rectangle bordered by old railway sleepers. They (they all seem to be very serious men) take the game very seriously. Do their lives (or their pockets) depend on the outcome?
In Fen Ditton it’s all very different. For one thing they are all very much older. They also seem to be so much happier. They play on grass, where the roll of the boule is unpredictable.
Perhaps the fundamental difference is grass and gravel.
In the gravel pit, accuracy of throwing is everything. The boule do not roll, even an inch (Sorry. Centimetre). Where you throw it is where it lands, and where it scores (or not). The result is greeted with dead silence; whether approval or scorn is impossible to tell.
The silent, serious men drink beer, from pint glasses. Beer: that ghastly brew, the sole purpose of which was to disinfect tainted water.
On grass you may be dead accurate as the boule leaves your hand, but then the grass and the ground take control. Players squeal with delight, or howl with anguish as the boule meanders around the imperceptible bumps and hollows.
The excitable pensioners eat fish and chips (the A10 chip van stops nearby, by special appointment to MargaretW) and mostly drink wine, from plastic glasses. Wine: that heavenly nectar, the sole purpose of which was to disinfect tainted water.
Then there are the jokes.
Just how many variations of a risqué joke can twelve retired people make on the word ‘boule’? And every one is so very, very funny.
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