Too much stone.

Another chilly start to the day. The cold front over the Bay of Biscay slowly inching its way towards us. A smattering of clouds over the mountains heralding rain. The neighbouring farmer has been hard at work sowing the field at the crossroads with young sunflower plants.

Time for a quick drink, a mad dash round the garden and then off in the car to the cafe under the arcades for an illicit half croissant. When we arrive the beer and absinthe crowd are happily devouring their first pre-breakfast libation. The man with the maroon metallic motability scooter and the lady with the blue dressing gown and red pom-pom slippers are enthusiastically sharing an alcoholic Solero.

Bob spends much of his afternoon sitting on his stump seat watching passing pilgrims. Two thirds are observed  in manly silence. The others get the highly vocal 'this is my village and I've got my eye on you ' woof. All the pilgrims, irrespective of the greeting they receive, wave at him.

Sophie runs backwards and forwards in the brick dust yelping at the builders who have, mysteriously, opted to work on a Saturday. They are using far too much stone and far too little brick in the rebuilt walls. Three facades of The Rickety Old Farmhouse are made of stone but the side they're working on is made almost entirely of brick. '' We can always grow roses up it " says 'The Font' with only a hint of resignation.