Mountains cannot be surmounted except by winding paths.

The Bastille Day holiday fast approaching. In order to get away on vacation the workmen have picked up the tempo of their work. Their movements not exactly frenetic but now at least proceeding at a more determined pace. The bathrooms, the floors, some joinery and the redecorating scheduled to be finished by the 17th. We'll settle for one and a half bathrooms and the doors in the snug. The rest can wait until after the summer visitors have gone.

The womens cooperative deliver the Indian silk cushions. They've been working on them for nearly six months. '' We had to wait for the piping " says the upholsteress by way of explanation or possibly apology. She's wearing a pair of very loose fitting blue and green striped linen pyjamas. On her head a lace bonnet of the type worn by newborn infants in the 1950's. The bonnets two straps dangle down on either side of her face. They sway while she talks.

Out early. Bob picks up the harness with his mouth and puts it on a chair by the front door. No mistaking what he's thinking. This morning the village green covered with mole hills .Bob is soon nose down, zigzagging too and fro in search of the elusive diggers. We've been in France for three summers and this is the first time I've stood under the lime trees and heard the bees at work. Thousands of them. A wall of sound. City dwellers would call it quiet.