Canoodling.

A group of a dozen or so teenagers arrive on the village green around nine at night. They have a picnic. Three of them have guitars. Two have bongo drums. The girls have something of the 'flowers in their hair' look of 60's era Berkeley students. They sing. Then they 'canoodle'. Being French they sing and 'canoodle' all through the night. 

It's darker, if not cooler, in the mornings now. The sun just peeping over the crest of the ridge as Bob and his master set off on their six o'clock walk. At the Y junction we stop and look at the fields of blue corn flowers. Bob is told, as he's told every morning that this is his country. He greets this information with a lick of my ear. We start to discuss Hillary's hacked e-mails but uncertain what to make of the affair we head home.

As we return home we notice that the' young people ' have fallen asleep on the grass.

Bobs sister, who has stayed behind to clean out 'The Fonts' yogurt carton, is loaded into the back of the car. Getting Sophie in the car first prevents any potential ' Bobs in my space' crises .

Seems as if everyone in France is away on holiday. The traffic unusually light as we head towards the bakers. 

Bob and Sophie get a chance to run along the river bank where the pollarded lime trees provide deep shade. They also get croissant crumbs.

The guitar players on the village green bestir themselves in the late afternoon. Another picnic magically appears. Wine bottles are opened. It looks as if they intend spending another noisy night outside our windows.