Growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional.

We meet the very old farmer as he's coming out of the churchyard . The old fellows  daily visit to his wife's grave. He shuffles slowly alongside us down the lane. Bob is happy to trot along at this leisurely pace but Sophie strains at her leash, eager to race off . Our journey marked by the winding and unwinding of leads.

At his front door we're invited in. I make a half hearted excuse but it's clear he'd like the company. What in the scheme of things is half an hour of my time ? Bob and Sophie are immediately taken with the unusual smell in the very old farmers kitchen. Animal, vegetable or mineral ? Perhaps a combination of all three ? They settle under the table. Bob puts his chin on my foot. Although it's barely breakfast time the very old farmer pours a generous portion of  home made wine into a frosted glass beaker. He pushes it towards me.  The smell of rosewater with the consistency of treacle. He chews an olive, finds it tough, spits it out, then repeats the process. The discarded pieces arranged round a plate.  He wonders if Bob and Sophie would like some rabbit stew. 

Monday morning in deepest France profonde. On our way home Bob looks up at me as if to say '' Did you know there was cold rabbit stew on top of the oven ?" . 

Home to find Madame Bay has filled a vase with sage flowers. ' How exotic ' says ' the font '.