There is a sublime beauty to playing petanque on the long summer days as the sun lingers above the ridge line of Sonoma Mountain well past the time for dinner. Tossed boules seem to float through the warm air seeking the perfect donee or target point and the clack of contact of steel on steel echoes across the nearly deserted terrain. High in the eucalyptus a bird sings a clear three note song and we pause to listen and search the upper branches for its distinctive red breast. It is a very different feeling than the frenetic cheerfulness of a morning tournament or even an afternoon singles match. There is a sensual laziness that rides the voices of gentle trash talking, remembered contests, and the metallics clicks to applaud a well thrown boule. The reluctant goodbyes are eventually shared as we head our separate ways but it is with the feeling that for at least an hour or two this little bit of living we are granted was a meal we enjoyed in full measure.
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"Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language."
― Henry James
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