On Saturday night, I put on a skirt, pinned my hair and toddled out to the village traditional dance, le Fest-Noz. I also put on some sunscreen because even at 7pm the sun is high in the sky, and I took the shady path through the forest to the sports ground.

The worst that could happen, I said to the little worry that appeared as I was leaving the house, tugging at my skirt and reminding that I was once again attending an event where I don’t really know how it works and I don’t know a soul, is that I would have some dinner, hear some music, not talk to anyone, not dance and wander home again. Not so bad.

This, of course, is not how the evening rolled. Despite low level attacks from blackberry bushes encroaching on the forest path, I arrived relatively unscathed at the Fest-Noz which had been blessed with a lovely breeze, a clear sky and a beautiful down-to-earth community ambiance. I bought my drink and dinner tokens, got myself a cider and collected a serving of moule-frites, with apple tart for dessert. It beats me how a community group can cook delicious mussels and chips for four hundred people without looking even the tiniest bit stressed. Then again, this is France, and food is the number one priority.

As I ate dinner at one of the long tables in the shade of the marquee, I watched the people wandering in, catching up with friends and enjoying a relaxed Saturday evening. The whole spectrum was there: the couples in their seventies, the men in carefully ironed short-sleeve shirts, the ladies in floral dresses; the middle-aged women in elegant summer dresses, their men in linen shirts; the early twenties girls in short shorts and crop tops; a few groups of young men sinking beers; babies in strollers and kids running around eating fairy floss.

I chatted to a lovely couple at the bar and then the band came on and the dancing began. Brittany is culturally quite distinct from the rest of France and the Fest-Noz is particular to the region. The music is traditional and the dancing is first and foremost about community. The steps are simple and it is mostly danced in big circles or long, snaking lines, linked by pinkie fingers. To join in, you approach the group, pinkie fingers raised, and the line opens to welcome you in. Nobody seems to mind if you don’t know the dance, they’re just happy that you want to learn. I first danced next to a friendly man who took me as his pupil, showed me the steps and told me the history and context of each dance. What started as a group of twenty people while the sun was still up became two hundred as the crescent moon rose above the tree line. We danced until midnight, gently, with smiles, everyone joining in, from small children to octogenarians.

Arriving home well after midnight, I hopped into bed with a full heart, and the reassurance that this mad adventure keeps paving my path with gold.