Nothing is so strong as gentleness,nothing so gentle as real strength.

This morning there's no queue in the bakers. The clocks have changed overnight and the locals are still tucked up in bed. The little market town is quiet at the best of times but this morning it's eerily deserted - Marie Celeste Ville. The beer and absinthe crowd have adjusted their clocks and are just starting on their first lager of the day when we arrive at the cafe. Angus warrants a mere nod of the head but the PON's get a 'Salut Bhub' and a 'Bonjour Sofeee'.

The PON's bark at a few pilgrims, howl at nothing in particular, chase blackbirds and glare at the red squirrels that scamper in the branches of the oak tree. Sophie discovers mole hills. These are excavated. Sophie excavates silently. Bob makes snorting noises like those little wild pigs that pester tourists in Arizona ( therein lies a tale ). Both PON's finally fall into a deep sleep on the table in the garden. 

In the afternoon 'the font'  prepares langoustine au sabayon leger au cafe. Neither Bob nor Sophie stir from the kitchen.

A hectic day, France profonde style.