The French are not a religious people, but they continue to celebrate religious holidays most of the Christian world no longer sees as days off. Which helps explain why France has 11 national holidays this year, to eight in the United States.

Ascension is one of the French religious holidays (as are Assumption and the day after Pentecost), and this year Ascension fell on May 5.

Which in France means: “Off day for everyone!”

But instead of going to church, the French often celebrate holidays in civic ways.

In the town where we are staying, the local residents came up with a “sports day” (cycling, tennis, boules) — which was notable in the middle of it for the public barbecue.

Even Anglophones are invited.

It reminded me a bit of small-town America, 50 or 75 years ago. In Long Beach, my home town, large picnics were staged by civic groups. The “All-Iowa picnic” at Recreation Park sticks in my memory. You could go without actually being from Iowa.

The barbecue was equally inclusive here in France.

For six euros per person everyone gets about a foot of sausage and extra-long baguettes to use as buns, if they so desire, plus potato chips, wedges of cheese, wine and, for dessert, an ice cream cone.

It makes for a pleasant day. About 150 people turned out, which is quite a few for a town with about 700 year-round residents.

The sun was out, and brilliant, and the barbecue fuel was a pile of old, dry vines. At about 1 p.m., they lit them, and it made for a nice flame in just a few minutes.

The two gentlemen in charge of handling the cooking produced an iron implement, about the size of a twin bed, with handles at each end.

It had a hinge on one side that allowed the device to be opened. Yards of sausage were placed on one half of the metal grid, which eventually was closed and then placed over the flames of the vine wood, which gives off a nice aroma.

The townsfolk were asked only to bring plates and silverware they might think they needed to the barbecue locations, which was on the edge of the boules court, beneath the big, old trees near the war memorial.

When the sausage was properly blackened, everyone got in line and got their meat and cheese.

Beforehand, organizers sold cups of beer and wine for one euro a glass. During the lunch however, jars of locally grown red wine were placed every few feet along the long tables set up in the shade.

It made for a fine lunch.

Apparently, they do this every Wednesday night during the summer. I could see myself showing up more than once or twice.