The clocks change overnight. In high summer we're out before six. Now we wait until it's getting light at seven. This morning there's a fiery sky on either side of the ridge.
A group of pre-teen musicians in orange tee-shirts escort the senior citizens down the street. The pre-teens are extremely enthusiastic musicians. They play unburdened by the standard conventions of timing or rhythm.
There is a procession . The priest is wearing a fake beard. Bob finds this presence somewhat alarming. He makes his ' I'm not sure about this ' noise in the back of his throat. Sophie moves behind my legs.
At the back of the cavalcade the more senior old folks have been loaded onto a horse drawn buggy. From the looks on their faces none of them seems to be particularly keen to be on the back of a buggy or to be up and about so early.
Back in the village there is a light on in The Very Old Farmers kitchen. He waves. We are invited in. Bob sits by me. He gets a tickle behind the ears. Sophie disappears behind the spin dryer. She emerges with something in her mouth. By the time I've noticed and attempted to remove it, she's swallowed whatever it was.
In the early evening Bob joins me in the Salle des Fetes to watch the rugby. The local farmers have been drinking since lunchtime. They sing along with the South African anthem. '' The most beautiful music in the world M'Ongoose''. Four year old farmers perform the Haka with verve. We leave at the end of the game. Bob tells an overly familiar Jack Russell where to go. More kegs of beer arrive.
Just another unremarkable day in deepest, deepest France profonde.
Is this the only trilingual national anthem ? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEk5bKqofK8