Next year it will be sunny.

We have been blessed with cloudless skies and brilliant sunshine for the first week of the drainage works.

Week two starts with heavy rain and strong winds.

The mud and clay in the garden are transformed into gloop.

We do our best to keep the angelic duo away from the open ditches.

PONs are a highly inquisitive breed. 

A washed and brushed Sophie falls asleep in the hallway. Her position carefully chosen so that anyone going towards the kitchen has to pass her by. 

It's the village Saints Day. Horse riders from miles around converge on the church. The rain proves to be of the power shower variety.

Madame Bay and the ladies of the Beautiful Byeways Committee have laid on a lunch. There are few takers. Most of the visitors have left, soaked to the skin, after an hour. There is cassoulet for a hundred but only twenty show up. These kind gentle people for whom a Saints Day is such an important event try not to show their disappointment. '' Next year it will be sunny " says the mayor. The Old Farmer, resplendent in his fur trappers hat with ear flaps, dispenses home made wine from the stainless steel tea urn. Walter, the depressive physiotherapist, brings out his accordion. Fortified by the Old Farmers wine the little lady in the purple hat sings.

So passes a wet Sunday in deepest, deepest France profonde.