Postcard from France . . . a big day out for Licques’ turkey farmers

In Licques’ main square, a giant cauldron of turkey broth was steaming over a blazing fire pit and being ladled out to serve the incoming crowd. “Come and have soup,” called the lady handing out the paper cups. “It’s really warming, it’s free!” I took a sip, a welcome treat as the temperature dropped to -2C. The serving of la potée (the hotpot) marks the start of the Fête de la Dinde (festival of the turkey), held every December in Licques, a small town near Calais renowned for its poultry, with 80 producers among a population of just over 1,600.

I had come for a quick pre-Christmas jaunt to stock up on some gourmet treats from Boulogne and Saint-Omer and to soak up the festive atmosphere in Licques. This year’s festival was the first after two years of Covid-related cancellations, and locals chattered excitedly as they sipped the hot broth and listened to local TV personality Bernard Seitz do the introductions via a booming loudspeaker.

Seitz told the growing crowd how the festival had begun in the 1960s, when local producers would bring their live poultry to the main street two weeks before Christmas to show them off and take orders. In normal years, the festival sees a parade of turkeys being herded up the steep main street by local children and members of the town’s guild, or “brotherhood”, of those working in the industry, but efforts to prevent the spread of bird flu put paid to the tradition this time.

No matter. Instead of the gobbling gaggle, the parade was led by a 4ft stone statue of a turkey named Alfred on the back of a tractor-drawn trailer.

Behind Alfred were the brotherhood — la Confrèrie de l’Ordre de la Dinde de Licques — with men in cavalier-like costumes and women in blue and white robes. They were joined by more than a dozen other brotherhoods, representing specialities from the Hauts-de-France region and beyond. The grand master of the turkey brotherhood, Guy Savary, with his impressive moustache and feathered hat, took over the mic and introduced each group as they lined up.

Among them was an ebullient group from the Confrèrie des Fous de la Patate Azteque à Esquelbecq — literally, the Brotherhood of the Aztec Potato Madmen from [the village of] Esquelbecq — dressed in potato sackcloth robes with colourfully decorated hats. There was an extra-warm cheer for the brotherhood of brewers and distillers, who had come all the way from Belgium, while the three members of the Grand Ordre International des Dindons du Périgord sported pilgrim-style hats as a nod to the turkey’s North American origins.

Next, a local bagpipe player warmed up the crowd for the guest of honour: Michel Pruvot, France’s most famous accordionist. With Pruvot squeezing out the tunes next to him, Savary launched into a loud rendition of the “Hymn to Licques”, with lyrics that celebrate the town’s poultry-rearing and a catchy chorus that everyone joined in with. Then, with the crowd that had swelled to around 250, we set off up the hill to the festival tents, singing the hymn on repeat.

While everyone gathered in the tent, I paid a quick visit to what remains of the 12th-century abbey over the road. There I learnt how, in the 17th century, the monks introduced turkeys to the area and taught villagers how to rear them. The free-range poultry, fed on a diet of cereals, has protected origin status (IGP) and the Label Rouge, France’s sign of quality assurance.

Chickens and turkeys were being sold at stalls in the tents, alongside cheese, snails, wine and smoked salmon. I bought a few things and then took my seat for the feast. Rows of long refectory tables were set out to welcome some 300 visitors, many of them retirees (apparently the teenagers were still recovering from a disco the night before), and we sat down, nodding our “bonjours” over the music from Marie-Pierre et Momo, a singer and keyboard player. We tucked into white pudding sausage with apple sauce, then a huge plate of roast turkey and chips.

By the time I came to leave, Pruvot was on stage with his accordion. The dance floor was full and everyone was waving their hands in the air to the music. Even the two turkeys in an enclosure in the corner of the marquee seemed to be happy. As I crouched down to bid one of them farewell, he pecked out and gobbled loudly.

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