Carnaval de Binche 2013

What the Tomatina is for tomatoes, the Carnaval de Binche is for oranges, but here comparisons cease.  Whereas the Tomatina crowds fry under a Valencian summer sun, every Shrove Tuesday the sleepy Wallonian town of Binche lets its hair down for a festival like no other.

The most striking thing about this UNESCO listed carnival is the colour. It was a gloomy, grey day but the entire town was vibrant and saturated. The costumes are some of the most elaborately crafted I've ever seen and the townsfolk take particular pride in turning themselves out.

The icing on the cake of every costume is the blooming ostrich plume headpieces worn by the town's men (or Gilles as they're known).

Welcome to the Carnaval de Binche

The festival takes place over the Sunday, Monday and Tuesday before Ash Wednesday but I suspect there's a pagan heart to this Christian tradition. The Gilles beat drums, wear ghoulish masks, stamp their clogs and wave sticks to ward off the evil spirits... much like the Straw Bear Festival in my local town, Whittlesey.

Reservoir Clogs

The festival is best known for its oranges. Hundreds of thousands of these citrus missiles are stockpiled as ammunition. The oranges are thrown by the Gilles in the parade at the tourists lining the streets to watch. Although it's fine for the townsfolk to lob oranges at you, it's a faux pas to throw them back. The orange aimed at your head was a gift bringing good luck and it's an insult to return it at the same velocity at which it was delivered.

Lobbing oranges, what the Carnival de Binche is all about

Even the children take part in the orange throwing. In fact, it's fair to say they're the town's most lethal orange cannons.

She looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, that's until you're on the receiving end of her citrus missile

There's no age limit on pelting tourists with satsumas

With so many oranges whistling by my ear and with those around me receiving direct hits I was starting to feel charmed. But nemesis surely follows hubris and it wasn't long before I too was victim of the capricious fortune of war. I took an orange square in the forehead; my pint-sized assassin laughed in my face (as did everybody around me).

No shrinking violet

There were lots of different costumes but these pastel coloured princess outfits were really cheerful, although inexplicably accessorised with Zorro's mask. Even these cherubs were firing oranges like Napoleonic artillery at our lines.

Pastel princesses

Earlier when I'd seen all the town's windows boarded up with grillage I was suspicious; how could an orange do any serious damage? After I'd tasted first blood orange I was more sympathetic. You see it isn't long before gently throwing underarm gets a bit stale. Soon the oranges were being flung greater distances at large undefined masses with fate deciding who fell. When les ados on one side of the square decided to hurl an orange fifty feet at full toss at the crowds on the opposite side we were soon facing a return delivery at a pace to shame Shoaib Akthar. Orange fight!

Boarded up

Glugging behind le grillage

This sensible chap demonstrates the underarm technique

The most popular targets were those lording it over us on balconies. It needed a good arm to reach some of the loftier spectators, but the sturdy Gilles didn't disappoint.

One moment you're waving from the balcony like royalty... the next you've got a fast-flying orange in the chops, nothing is quite so humbling quite so quickly

The oranges provided were blood oranges, so before long the cobbled streets of Binche ran red with bloody juice. A nice dramatic touch.

The streets ran red with blood

The entire town was spilling in and out of the many bars. The tipples of choice were champagne of lager. By midday the party was already in full swing with revellers dancing to the Euro pop disco inside the dimly lit bars. Not everybody looked like they were having a good time...

Have you ever seen Toy Story 3? Remember Chuckles the Clown?

Wardrobe malfunction

It was below freezing and I had to stand around for several hours waiting for the parade. On my own it was quite lonely. Luckily I bumped into Tomoko from Okayama (not Okinawa as some people might have you believe). She's a real carnival junkie and is on a grand tour of Europe's best festivals. The only people I know who like talking about lenses as much as I do are the Japanese, so the time flew by. Regardless, we were both absolutely frozen by the time the parade began and a kind Parisian man gave us some Chinese chemical pocket warmers, without these I'd have lost a few digits. Back in Brussels - six hours later - the pocket warmer was still toasty - how do you spell 'partially de-weaponised plutonium' in Mandarin?

Tomoko came all the way from Japan to see the carnival

And like the Tiger Who Came to Tea the festival was over for another year. I pitied the poor cleaners the next morning. Returning to the gare I spotted this desultory dinosaur wearily wending his way home.

It's a long walk home when you're dressed as a velociraptor

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