Who are we to judge ?

Sophie is up early to alert us to the fact that the farmer is back and has brought an even larger tractor with him. He parks the machine on the speed bump and tinkers with the plough attachment. He whistles as he does so. There is nothing quite like whistling to get a PON into high alert mode. Apart, that is,  from banging a metal attachment with a spanner. This works just as well.The village wakes.

Sophie barks. Bob looks ferocious. Or as ferocious as he can look with Furry Fox in his mouth.

There is time for just a quick game of tug of war before we head into town.

Despite it being November two early rising American tourists can be seen in the market square. They are wearing identical white leather hats.They stand in the middle of the road, oblivious to the traffic, then stride purposefully off.

The beggar outside the market holds the door open for us. He tickles Bobs chin. Sophie avoids him. 'The Font' gives the young man a Euro coin. He has two friendly and well cared for dogs that he clearly loves and who love him back. Angus is always sniffy about giving to beggars. 'The Font' takes a ' who are we to judge ? ' approach. 

Sophie, exhausted by such an exciting start to her day, falls inelegantly asleep in the sun.

So begins another Sunday in deepest, deepest France profonde. Events too unimportant for a diary but too important to go completely unrecorded.