Wednesday, January 29, 2014
I believe Icarus was not falling as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.
Every French village has one of 'those' families that collect things. Ours can be found beyond the crossroads where the road starts to hairpin down into the valley. A father, two ( possibly three ) women, a gaggle of children and a grandmother who wears a red,yellow and black beanie hat and huge Sophia Lauren style sunglasses. There can be no doubting this is one of 'those' families because the fields around their house are slowly filling up with old cars. Last week there were forty two of them. This week a forty third, a red 1972 Volkswagen Golf GTI, has arrived. As we pass on our morning walk 'father' waves at us. Despite, or perhaps because of, the early hour he is is the garden wearing Y-fronts, wellington boots and a beret. In Britain the cars would be cleared away by the couincil. Here they are left to gently 'appreciate' in value. One of those little cultural differences.
Outside the convenience store three black hens slowly amble along searching for grubs. Before we leave they are joined by four brown hens. The PON duo stand in the back of the car and squeak with excitement.
It stops raining. An interlude before the next wet front comes barreling in from the Atlantic tomorrow. Bob and Sophie dig, chase squirrels, help 'the font' make Bolognaise sauce, and rug surf. They are also groomed . It has to be said that within two minutes of them being lifted down from the grooming table they need grooming again.