The warmth to swell the grain.

It's rained overnight. Just enough to clear the air and settle the harvest dust. Down in the valley three new born calves cluster together under the watchful eyes of their mothers. Bob and Sophie trot past them, tails waving, en route to the sunflower fields and a long drink in the stream.

Here in the village life is slow, the sky cloudless . The post lady comes with two copies of New Republic. '' They're from America " she says jauntily while passing them over the front gate. It's as if she's surprised that people outside France should publish magazines . 

In the afternoon the neighbouring farmer rings the bell . The overflow valve from our swimming pool has got stuck open and water is washing away his newly planted winter wheat. Angus promises to do something about it. Sophie dozes in the shade of a palm tree using a box hedge as a chin rest. The unchanging rhythm of life in deepest, deepest, France profonde.