An Irishman’s Diary on a carnival’s summons to spring

Red-bricked alleys twist and resound. The monotonous drums belt out primitive morse code. Twenty or so people follow the orange-clad figures as they stride through the town. The gold braid and white-lace collars lure the crowd as sturdy clogs carry the four “gilles” onwards. Pied pipers of old, they bring whimsy and delight to the southern Belgian town of Binche. The time? About 5am. It’s the fête des gilles, one of several such celebrations in the Walloon area in the run-up to Easter.

It all started an hour earlier in the house of Binche alderman Jérôme Urbain. His father, Dominique, is a gille this year. Invited friends arrive from 4am for the “bourrage” – the precisely coded but speedy transformation of a mortal into a gille.

It takes three people about 20 minutes to insert the hay across the shoulders and stomach of each gille, and to construct the hunchback that will survive the rigours of a day of marching in the orange outfit. The final touches are an ornate, white balaclava-like bonnet. Champagne jollies the event along as people overcome third-day carnival fatigue to give it their all.

Cobblestones

What’s that? A spit of drumming and commotion outside. The cobblestones echo with more clogs as five other gilles arrive. Their shuffling dance warns winter its days are numbered – the clogs deliver blows to dispel the dark. And, amid smiles and general good humour, the posse takes off again, Dominique’s crew now added to their midst. We weave rapidly through the streets and alleys of the ramparted town, catching sight of other gille collectives as flashes of strange vertical goldfish in the corner of the eye.

After more house calls, our numbers are bolstered. Corners are rounded and squares crossed. The town walls contain the increasing racket of drummers and pipers: the gilles are summoned and escorted. One house dates from 1875 and drips an unlikely plush Versailles in this medieval town an hour south of the EU capital. Far from bailouts and reactive political economy, a gille leans against the door, refracted in frenzied glasses of champagne bubbles.

Light fills the morning sky as we make it down to Binche train station. There are hundreds of gilles now, partaking of refreshment around L’Espérance. By 10.30am we hit the town hall for the presentation ceremony. The mayor gives a speech and welcomes each collective of gilles as they arrive. They don their wax masks and the drumming and pipes reach fever pitch as they wave small tight bundles of sticks as witchish wands. A man is applauded for his 20th fête des gilles. Another his 30th. One more for his 50th, his 60th. Jérôme Urbain stands behind the podium, now in his official capacity as alderman, his father among the gilles being presented.

Masks

Earlier the gilles had formed a huge circle – a “rondeau” – in the square. The masks, swirl and colour entrench you in belief in this ancient thing. You don’t need the history of why (it is vague and speculative: one version traces the gilles back to 1549 and Incas who put on a show for Marie of Hungary, her brother Charles Quint and his nephew Philippe II). The fête des gilles is an eloquent and annual replay of magic. All year long, Binche anticipates this event: its yearly reanimation is framed in pictures in every bar. This event is not simply the annual highlight for Binche – it is Binche. Through the cacophony, the energy and passion for this epic folklore rings clear.

It’s not yet 11am and the fête has been under way for seven hours. Moments will jump out – a meal of oysters and salmon and white wine in the beautiful old Binchoise brewery. Some sleep (the ramparts provide only one type of fortification).

A colossal parade led by cops on horseback. The gilles donning huge, toppling, ostrich-feather head-dresses as they hurl oranges into the dense afternoon crowd. Evening dark descends and finds the gilles shuffling around flames in the square, their entourage still mesmerised.

Aglow

Fireworks blast from the town hall. Others erupt from close to the church. Binche is aglow. As the crowds finally thin out, a debris carpet of confetti, burst oranges and cracked plastic becomes apparent.

A thick fog rolls in and engulfs the town. Through its cloak the orange of remaining gilles looms. There is still the thud of drums and die-hard stragglers follow them off into the fog.