Hot. The type of heat that promises thunderstorms but doesn't deliver.
We saunter down the hill towards the stream . By six thirty we're sauntering back up the hill towards The Rickety Old Farmhouse. To be more precise Angus saunters, the PONs race ahead. Sophie finds and devours hideous things in the hedgerows. Her tail wags with the force of a flag in a force ten gale. What in heavens name led us to believe that a female dog might be more genteel ?
At the greengrocers red and white striped tomatoes. The photo doesn't do them justice.
By eight in the morning the shutters are closed, the garden watered ( the well has run dry today ) and the PONs firmly ensconced indoors. From time to time Bob wanders to the front door and sticks his nose out to make sure there are no sheep causing mayhem in the orchard.
I forgot to mention that on our morning walk we nearly had a 'diva' moment. Brunhilda, the German billionaires dog, is here. She's wandered down from the chateau to the village below. We meet her by the war memorial. Bob is greatly taken with Brunhilda. He has great ideas for Polish-German reconciliation. Sophie doesn't.
Brunhilda keeps a sensible distance as Sophie, enraged at the appearance of this interlope,r is encouraged along the road. There can be no doubting that Sophie believes this to be 'her' village.
The evening football match was a chaotic medley of rising smoke from the fire under Wallys paella dish, feral three year olds, rampant Jack Russells, and frequent renditions of the Marseillaise by overly emotional French farmers. France lose to Portugal 1-0. The post match postmortem finishes at midnight.