Last Sunday Liz and I went to church. This, as God will testify, is a rare event, but it was for a good cause. Basically we were there to pray for a good vintage for 2014, and well, heaven knows we all like a good vintage.

So, unusually for us we were up and ready for the off by 9am, at which time we met up with Jim and Sandra who had offered to drive us to the nearby town of Jonquieres Saint-Vincent on this fine Sunday morning, to take part in an annual wine festival held in January. This invokes the pleasure of the deity and local patron saint St Vincent to look benignly on the growth of the grapes, the principle being that come September this blessing will yield a bountiful harvest - the vendange - that ultimately turns into a damn fine tipple.

The day's ceremony started with the serious stuff: a church service - mass in fact - in the chapel of St Vincent, at which the confreries - or brotherhoods - representing the local regions, attended in their colourful robes, some with ceremonial silver wine tasters or tastevins hanging on ribbons around their necks. Or, in the case of the Order of the Garlic, ceremonial wooden pestles. This coven, whose members dress in aioli-coloured capes - wear the garlic pestles apparently as a bit of fun, possibly in the hope of meeting members of the Brotherhood of the Mortar so they can consummate their rendevous with a good grinding. Our French wasn't up to asking, and anyway, we don't want to spoil the conjecture.

The church service was something of a mystery also, and Liz and I struggled through the liturgies to understand what was being said. We gathered the sermon was based around how Jesus endorsed wine as way of remembering him, (Cheers Jesus!) plus there may have been something in there about how he turned water into wine. To illustrate this miracle four bottles of wine stood tantalisingly in front of the priest, ranging in size from an ordinary bottle to a giant jereboam. We looked longingly at them, but no miracle of dispensation was forthcoming. God knows we prayed hard enough.

We hummed alomg with the hymns, tried to work out which one was the Lord's Prayer, and wished we'd got there early enough to secure a pew.

When the priest got to the passing round of the communion wine and holy biscuit we and a few others near the door decided to renounce Catholicism and get out into the sunshine. Outside a crowd had gathered, waiting for the start of the formal procession through the vineyard.

They didn't have to wait long - obviously the remaining congregation had downed their wine and munched their crackers with gusto - because in no time the carved wooden effigy of St Vincent was borne aloft out of the chapel, on the shoulders of four confreries, followed by the Order of the Garlic, the other covens, and finally the parishoners.

The first part of the parade didn't last long, and wound only around the back of the Bar Tabac, through the local wineryyard and into the car park, where it stopped, and St Vincent, with carved bunch if grapes in hand, was placed onto the back of a leaf-enshrouded farm trailer attached to an equally verdant ancient tractor. Nearby, Condor - a musical group of diffuse number but which included a guitar player, multiple drummers and flute and pipe players - struck up some tunes that would be at home as themes to the second Blackadder series. Don't get me wrong, they were very very good, and I was disappointed not to see CDs on sale.

However, we did buy our tasting glasses, engraved with the 2014 St Vincent logo, and carried these with us when the entertainment had finished and the ancient tractor started off, towing St Vinnie at an escargot's pace. The rest of us followed respectfully, the confreries behind the tractor with their embroidered banners swaying colourfully in the mild breeze. It was a sight to stop traffic, but the local police did that for us instead as we crossed the road and wound our way through the winter vineyard, the gnarled stems pushing through the earth like arthritic fingers reaching for the sun. Hard to imagine these same vines will be dripping with grapes in seven months.

Various pipe players and drummers tweeted and thumped as we proceeded at a dignified 16th century pace, until all the confreries, others garbed in clothes and costumes of bygone days, and dignitaries, assembled on a little hillock, already prepared with microphone and speakers. Adjacent was a gently sloping hillside with trestle tables on which there were many many platters of finger food, and - seemed strange at the time - multiple bladder-boxes of wine: vins blanc, rose and rouge. Having already spent an hour in the chapel, and another half hour listening to the music and parading, Liz, myself and our boating friends were ready to tuck in to the food and wine, but first more speeches. The first was by what we suppose was the Grand Master of Everything. His French was very good, in that he spoke very clearly, slowly, and to the extent we could understand many of the words and phrases. There was more talk about wine and water, and much laughter from the crowd, which we think was something to do with Jesus turning water into wine again, and how much we all appreciated that he wasn't tee-total.

The second speaker spoke in Provencal, so that was lost on us, but we did get the last bit, which was that we all had to toast three times "Vive St Vincent!". We gave such a desultory performance the first time that we were forced to do it again with more enthusiasm, but our reward was that the tables were declared open, and in we launched. Or lunched. Or lurched if you didn't take into account the sloping hill.

The next hour passed very pleasurably as the large crowd munched, filled their glasses, drank, munched some more and mingled, all the while the sun shining on St Vincent as he waited patiently behind his tractor. Unfortunately his carved expression was one of sadness, or annoyance - hard to tell - but he seemed to disapprove of the jollity going on a few metres to his right. By way of compensation a small terrier, wearing a traditional confriere coat of its own, was tied to the trailer to keep him company... or wee on his wheels.

And then, tables bare, everyone moved off on some invisible signal, walking once again in procession, to the Chateau de Vincent, where we assumed we'd be getting back into the cars and heading home. But no! There in the farm courtyard were more trestle tables, more free wine, a number of tasting and sales tents representing local and nearby wineries, and a stage for - alas - more speeches.

However, as any good event organiser knows, there's no point having any speeches once alcohol has been consumed, but somebody forgot to tell this lot, so while various dignitaries stood at the microphone, the rest of us toasted St Vincent, nibbled on more food and yes, even bought some bottles to take away with us.

Jim had nominated himself as our sober driver, for which we were very grateful, and we got back to the marina safe and sound, and ready for a nap. But we could have stayed, because the morning's festivities were just the start of a day-long programme, though you'd need a cast iron liver to survive it.

Vive Shaint Vinshent! God blesh him! And once again, Cheersh, Jeesush!