Woe betide.

From the fresh hoof marks along the grass verges it can be assumed that a herd of wild boar with irritated tusks have recently wandered through the village.  Bob, much to his annoyance, is put on his lead. This doesn't stop him from leaping into hedges and over ditches in pursuit of boar scents. We pause by the field with the pony and two goats.

Sophie has stayed at home to oversee the preparation of the morning porridge. She licks her lips to signal how content she is. Porridge and honey. The prefect start to a PONs day.

Sophie always sits on the left of the car. Bob on the right. Some routines are carved in marble. Woe betide Bob if he forgets this basic rule.

In the little market town the dogs are greatly taken with the roadworks outside the 13th century arcades. How sensible those ancient townsfolk were. Shade in the summer and shelter from the chill winds in the winter. Bob christens a pile of paving slabs. Just the latest in a long line of dogs to have had the same idea.

On our way back to the car we pass a restaurant which seems to have a catholic take on cuisine. Italian, French, Spanish, American, Lebanese and French all under one roof.

In front of the covered market the young man who politely 'requests' money is without his two dogs. One four years old, the other eight months. 'The Font' asks him where they are. It seems there was an electrical fire and they both died. Angus , perhaps unjustifiably, thinks to himself this is what happens when recreational pharmaceuticals and dog ownership coincide. 'The Font', less judgemental, is simply sad.