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Though the morning mist on the plain of the Adour is cold and grey as it creeps along the canal into Barcelonne du Gers, the people swathed in thick coats and scarves are not deterred. They are anxious to see all there is to see on the official opening day of the 33rd Agricultural Fair, their annual February event.

   All the equipment is in place, the cattle are in their straw, and there is serious buying and selling to be done. By 10 am all the roads into the village are lined with parked cars. No vehicles can pass from north to south — only the main route connecting Bordeaux and Tarbes remains open. Along this the traffic snails, as muffled men and women — ten men to every woman — clump together and surge in front of the crawling vehicles to cross from one square to another. Drivers are puzzled by what they glimpse through the swirling veils: twisted forms towering high above a swarming mass of pedestrians.

   The wandering throngs have come to marvel at this vast collection of secondhand agricultural machinery, giant lime green maize harvesters looming over tiny red tractor-mowers. Huddles of men bend their heads towards each other. The older ones are keeping their thoughts warm with a beret; the younger ones let the cold seep in. The beret is an endangered species, no Frenchman under 50 wears one. It is practical headgear, particularly the floppy Basque style. Uniformly black in this region, it can be pulled down firmly, low over the ears, or to one side, or forward into a generous peak to shade the eyes against the sun. Not that there’s any sun to worry about as yet.

   The men mutter together. Before the hard bargaining comes the walking around the machine, the thumb rubbed over the tires, the close inspection of the paintwork, the evaluation of the engine. If there is real interest, the engine springs to life, and heads are cocked to listen to its tune.

   Whatever equipment might be wanted, it can be found here. Crowds cluster round the seed planters that look like modern sculptures, with curls and twists and springs of metal. People drift past tractors of all shapes, colours and sizes, past reels of irrigation pipe, forklift trucks, equipment for the gavage (feeding the fat ducks that produce foie gras) and for plucking fowl. There are mowers to ride on, mowers to push, mini-pele, disc harrows, special high-wheeled tractors for riding over the vine rows, taller ones to cut the tops off the maize, tanks for water, tanks for pesticide, herbicide, fertilizer, and enormous black doughnuts of tractor tyres piled high beside the road.

   Those who have been inspecting the goods progress through discussions and bargaining to the completion of the deal. A satisfactory conclusion calls for un verre. In the main square five men sit around a collapsible picnic table behind a big green combine, tumblers of red wine to hand. They have concluded their business and are relaxing.

   As at any French day out, eating and drinking have an important part to play in creating the right atmosphere for enjoyment. Some have fortified themselves against this nasty February morning with the hearty 11 euro breakfast offered at the Auberge du Moulin; a stomach-full of ventrèche and ham, eggs, bread, croissants, coffee and chocolate, red wine or armagnac if required, will insulate against the cold.. Others have already booked for the copious lunch. No booking, no chance to eat. On offer, for 17 euros, is garbure — the local soup made with duck neck for the broth, potatoes, onions, carrots, cabbage — followed by daube of beef or Gras Double (stewed tripe), then rosbif or gigot of lamb, served with vegetables, followed by patisserie. Wine and coffee included. As the customers go into the restaurant the mist is clearing. By the time they emerge with broad smiles the sun has burnt the mist away.

   It shines from a deep blue sky onto the leafless trees where drops of mist still glisten, illuminating the front of the imposing 19th century Hotel de Ville. It lights up the awnings of the stalls, the balloons, the crystal jewellery. An event of this size attracts vendors of smaller items who set up alongside the heavy machinery, hoping to profit from the large crowds. Each street closed to traffic is lined on both sides with stalls. Some of the eclectic selection of goods are related to the theme of the fair, with tools and metal objects which are a mystery to uninitiates. Outside the Post Office on a rough bench is displayed a collection of sturdy hammers alongside all sizes and shapes of sharp sickle-type instruments for pruning and tending the vines. There’s a small stall of impressive pinces du masse. What are they going to pinch? Another has blue work clothes, overalls, boot socks. Every year from the same corner, sharp knives for the kitchen are sold in their metal cases, the traditional flow of unending patter attracting a crowd three deep around the stall. Next to it you can find preserving pans, high quality casseroles and frying pans. A sharpnosed woman, very short like all the local women over 60, watches the demonstration of how you can cook eggs without fat, how the pan can be wiped clean with a piece of kitchen paper, how even cheese doesn’t stick. “Yes, I know,” she says, “I bought one last year, now I want a bigger one”. Her annual treat.

   Others interest themselves in wooden furniture, long-case clocks, and interspersed with these, a display of cheap watches, Provençal tablecloths, a stall of handkerchiefs, one of jeans, another of t-shirts and sweat-shirts adorned with the face of Johnny Hallyday, shelves of stuffed animals, striped socks with toes, CDs. The tune familiar from the Course Landaise, the local cow-dodging event, plays on and on, people humming unconsciously as they wander past. Everyone in these streets will have responded in the arènes to this music, which urges on the écarteur as he poises himself like a matador to dodge the wickedly-horned, uncertainly-tempered cow.

   Near the Barcelonne arènes, loudspeakers in the plane trees are broadcasting speeches from Monsieur le Maire and other local politicians. At first no-one seems to be paying any attention, as occasional words rise above the noise of crowd chatter: “sécheresse” “problèmes”, “grosse difficultés”. Then a a new voice declaims from the loudspeakers, a strong fierce local voice critical of rules, regulations, lack of understanding by the authorities. Heads lift and smiles break out. He is the president of the fair, he is talking their language. Over 40 years the prices haven’t stopped falling, nor the costs rising. Ah ouai.

   Opposite, in the parking space on the other side of the canal, there are yet more tractors but not so many people here seem interested in them. Attention centres on the stall selling ventrèche and merguez, with fried onions, in half a baguette. The aroma of the onions is a powerful magnet. A long line of eager customers presses against the counter. As they move away they bend forward before taking a big bite, so that the juice doesn’t drip down their fronts. They are curious about the maize-burning stove — actual maize kernels are being burnt rather than wood. This seems to be the big new idea of this year’s fair. Under a huge plane tree, a maize burning furnace is displayed with its descriptive brochures. The cost of oil is bemoaned everywhere, and there is a constant flow of people eager to see this novelty.

   Blue smoke drifts from an antique chestnut roaster grinding away among the tractors. Speciality foods of the region are offered at regular intervals. There are ewes’ milk cheeses from the Pyrenees and saucissons made from everything almost - wild boar, red deer, fallow deer, donkeys - flavoured with garlic or mixed with chestnuts. One of the saucisson stalls has a boar’s head as decoration. It would fit on the neck of an animal the size of a bull. Not something you want to meet on a woodland walk.

   The real bulls are sheltered in the warehouse of the Gamm Vert, tethered to stout wooden barriers. The biggest, a gargantuan Blond d’Aquitaine beast with a silky brown coat is lying down, taking his ease. He ignores the crowd wandering just centimetres from his massive rump. His name is Tommy. In the next row stands Unesco, a placid Charolais with a cream curly coat. The beasts are popular, and not just with the children. The crowd has got thicker in the afternoon, and all these people, enjoying the distractions of a winter fête, want to make sure they don’t miss anything, want to be able to discuss with their neighbours all the novelties and oddities they have seen at this biggest assembly of secondhand farm machinery in southern France.