Thursday, November 12, 2015
Bob arrives in the kitchen ready for the day to start. It's clear from the sodden paws and matted muzzle that he's already been chasing squirrels.
Sophie looks presentable.
Autumn mist for the Remembrance Service. We're supposed to start at 11.00 but it's 11.15 by the time the mayor has shepherded the villagers into position. The Old Farmer is there, a row of medals strung proudly across his brown knitted cardigan.
The mayor, dapper in his funeral suit, reads out the message from the President of the Republic. I strain to catch a few words but fail. Then the list of the village dead is called, '' Mort pour la France " intoned after each name.The mayors grandfather and uncle the first names read out. The youngest villager lays a wreath on the memorial. A minutes silence ,then the little lady in the purple hat sings the Marseillaise slowly and plaintively.
An invitation is extended to the mayor and his wife to join us for a glass of champagne. '' We couldn't possibly. Oh well. Perhaps the one ". Madame Bay, the lady with the beehive hairdo, the woman with unexpected triplets, the man in the yellow day-glo jacket , the lady in the purple hat , the tiler, the deputy matron from the Old Folks home, the Old Farmer and a variety of others follow along.
Bob circulates amongst the crowd in the hope of finding sausages. He's disappointed.
So passes another year in deepest France profonde. This 'The Font' notes to our mutual surprise is the seventh ceremony we've attended. Where has the time gone ?