A triumphant marriage.

The PONs and their master head down through the sunflower fields to the stream. We dream of rain. The clouds on the horizon have other ideas. They remain in exactly the same spot throughout the day. Lazy clouds.

Bob observes while I pour 50 kilos of salt into the pool. Why anyone ever has a pool is beyond me. An eternity of adding chemicals and checking PH balances all for a few brief weeks of use.

Afterwards, the wooden table is power washed. Bob opts to use it for a few minutes shut eye. Being the family guardian and pool supervisor is tiring work.

By late afternoon the clouds have melted into an all encompassing heat haze. We amble rather than walk down to the waterfall. Even the young Texan comments on the particularity of the heat. From the corner of the ridge a view of sunflowers stretching far into the distance. Bob and Sophie contentedly sniff scents.

The Old Farmers impromptu tour bus is sporting a new roof. The mayor had some spare plastic sheeting. This has been stretched over the Fords bare metal frame to provide commodious shade for the village elders. Their enthusiasm for the daily wind-in-the-hair excursion to neighbouring villages shows no sign of waning. The decision to only visit village halls which have functioning WC's a triumphant marriage of practicality and scheduling.