Postscript
Inflation
P. J. Kavanagh It is a most off-putting title, but I am going to talk about a real, not a metaphorical
inflation, that of balloons. In the last few days I found myself at Annonay, near Lyon, for a balloon festival. I was there to absorb the warm atmosphere (as does a balloon) in order to write about it.
Being in a place specifically to absorb its atmosphere is a strange business. Normally we take in our impressions by a kind of osmosis, relaxed, unconscious. But if you are paid to go and write about a place you tend to feel guiltily suspicious that you are in the wrong part of it, that what you should be experiencing is going on elsewhere. It is rather like being an adoles- cent at a dance.
In fact this feeling, in a festival as scat- tered as the one at Annonay, is probably justified. Things were going on simultaneously all over the town. Which one should be attended? If you stood in a bar (absorbing the atmosphere) a man would suddenly enter dressed in extravagant 18th- century uniform, clap his bearskin on a table and demand beer. In another place, ladies in panniered skirts and sunglasses would stroll past loosening their stays. Wherever you went something or other was apparently just over.
Montgolfier, the first balloon man, was
born at Annonay, a rather attractive place. He let off his first — the first — balloon in the central square and the festival was a media event, enjoyed by all, to celebrate the bicentenary of this. There was much parading and dancing and so on, but not too many balloons; conditions have to be ideal for their ascent. However, by the kind of fortunate mistake that happens in life, I managed to see some balloons being in- flated from a singular point of vantage and the sight was — I am indeed sorry to bring in the dreaded word, you need read no fur- ther — decidedly sexy.
It came about 'thus. The camera crew to which I was loosely attached was off to the surrounding hills to film a mass ascent of balloons planned for later that evening. The arrangement was that I should meet them at a reception for the returned balloonists, though none of us knew precisely where that was to take place. They set off. After hanging around a little (which is to say, a great deal) I decided to find this place of rendezvous and wait for them there. On the outskirts of town a polite policeman directed me to a tall iron gate, guarded by an attendant. I explained my arrangements to this man, to his obvious incomprehen- sion and, with reluctance, he opened the gate wide enough for me to enter.
I found myself walking down a drive, between trees, towards a chateau set in a large park. Below me, at the end of the park, were three balloons being carefully unrolled. This was clearly the right place. Yet somehow I doubted it. There were peo- ple near the house who stared at me strangely. I put this down to my own im- agination, to the generalised guilt ex- perienced by those who are paid to absorb atmosphere. I lurked, decently hidden, and watched the balloonists at work. It seemed a complex business. Then I became aware that people were drinking, behind me on the chateau terrace; were having a party in fact. This must be the buffet for the aeronauts' return, and they were starting before the aeronauts had even set off. It did not seem too bad an idea, so I drew nearer, discreetly. They stared, I stood, and at last a man approached, smiling. 'Welcome,' he said. 'May I introduce myself? This is my house.'
I was not in the right place. I had forced myself into a private house-party and very decent about it they were. They invited me stay, to help myself to drinks, with the slightly guarded hospitality of those who hope this strange man isn't going to spew all over the terrace.
I stayed long enough to see the most strange sight (the envy of the photographers when I re-found them, I am happy to say): three beautifully coloured balloons being inflated below me on a splendid green sward. It turned out to be a fussy affair like fly-fishing, all knots and fiddle. The preparations must be as much loved as the result.
Jets of flame are injected into the flaccid canopy. It is all very intimate; people peer, crawl inside. Then the cloth moves, plumps up like a li-lo. Next, and it is a surprise, the end of the balloon, still lying horizontally, fills out and is seen to be a dull black, very dull, and it looks as it lies on the ground, black and irregular, like those fungi that stick out of the sides of trees.
The houris dance round, encouraging, exhorting, touching. Then it stands, brilliantly coloured; then sags, detumesces; more effort, excitement, encouragement, and then, coloured and proud, it stands up straight. There is hesitation, tension, and at last off it goes from between the trees, sail- ing away triumphant with a waving occu- pant and — all is accomplished. At this point, like a News of the World reporter, I made my excuses and left.
For some reason — it was a beautiful evening, the sky dotted with crazy balloonists and crazily screaming swifts — I found myself laughing all the way to the place where I should have been in the first place, Where, as usual, nothing whatsoever was happening.
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