Adelaide hills under attack by great balls of steel

Picture an outdoor playground where intense concentration, precise measurements and cunning strategies are set in motion; where soldiers are locked in battle amid laughter and banter. Qui! It is the French tradition of pètanque as played at Le Club de Pètanque in the Adelaide Hills.

One of the oldest games known to mankind, it was played by ancient Egyptians with polished rocks. Now modern day warriors take to the pistes with balls of steel.

At night perfectionist pointers and ruthless snipers willingly assemble on the front lines ready to accept the challenge of war.

Warriors from a variety of origins; age groups, sexes and skill levels mix together with the same passionate objective - to snare victory.

Newcomers to the ranks are a dead give away with their shiny new balls and, to add insult to injury, they often improve their scores with large doses of beginners’ luck!

The signal is given. The battle begins and boules whistle by while comrades gather in trenches searching for shelter.

Beware of the pointers. Their work is usually perfect; silent but deadly their boules grub the dirt and kiss the jack. Damage control is left to the bombers; grenades in hand, always ready to execute their campaign, while sappers smooth the ground in an effort to remove huge mines - ever mindful of spies lurking in the midst.

There are those who precisely calculate the speed and position of their boules and those who just hope for the best.

On these battlefields problems in the dirt are not outdone by problems in the air. Overzealous bombers hurl boules out of the stratosphere only to return them to earth scattering unwary comrades gathered nearby.

The ‘on piste’ battle has been known to reduce battle-hardened soldiers to squabbling cadets as near sighted officials come into play. Among them are those who can’t stop talking, know-it-alls – who relentlessly argue about the score. Impartial Generals are beckoned to make the final judgment - they take no prisoners. Heavy artillery is called upon. Rulers, tapes, calipers and telescopic measures; these are the ritualistic paraphernalia of the game.

As well there are those who’ve become absorbed in chit chat, sheer trivia, oblivious to the slaughter in adjacent trenches.

As the furious onslaught of boules continues in close proximity, the Commander may shout orders for his comrades-in-arms to reassemble and evaluate their position.

The silence of ceasefire is regularly broken by raucous laughter as a newcomer rashly declares: ‘My balls are closest to the crotch’ - obviously uneducated in the correct terminology.

Meanwhile as the battle resumes, the mess cook prepares supper for the masses. Here you will not find delicate portions of foie gras and goat’s cheese or the traditional Pernod. Instead, your stomach awaits the impact of a ham and cheese toastie eagerly washed down with a glass of the finest chateau cardboard – all sure to please the gustatory senses. The battle weary soldiers never die hungry.

And at the end of the night as the air chills,
cadets, soldiers, commanders and spectators are bonded in competition and good company.

Needless to say, as soldiers ready themselves for the upcoming season, beginning in early November, I’ll be there in the front lines, with my comrades by my side and my shiny balls always at the ready.

Carol Perks