Wednesday, May 6, 2015
The cat that pees in the woodshed has returned. Bob and Sophie head out of the front door at high speed. There's not even time for a whoop of delight. Cat chasing is serious business.
It goes without saying that the cat has taken one look at the ferocious duo and headed off across the fields. The PONs are oblivious to its departure. They spend the next twenty minutes looking - in vain.
Down to the strawberry farm. We're the first visitors. The van hasn't even set off for the market in Agen . We take three punnets. '' Pay me tomorrow " says the farmer, keen to get on his way. Neither Bob nor Sophie care for strawberries so they find this part of their daily routine somewhat tedious. The itinerant Portuguese strawberry pickers greet them by name. Bobs tail wags. Sophie ignores them. She wants to get down to the cafe under the arcades and her illicit half croissant.
The valley carpeted in blue. Field after field of flax. The staple of linseed oil and the local linen weavers. Mundane but beautiful.
The German billionaires have imported some Hungarian stone masons to restore the ramparts. They don't speak a word of French. At night they sit outside the chateau gatehouse looking forlorn . Their evening meal is cooked on a metal tripod which supports a black iron pan over an open fire. A somewhat medieval touch. They sing strangely maudlin songs. The garlic laden smell of sausage and the sound of Ugric chanting keeps the PON's awake. Brother and sister have to be encouraged indoors to bed. What the villagers make of this exotic addition is unknown.