The mayor takes down the flags from the war memorial. The period of national mourning is over. On the other side of the lane the Old Farmer is readying the Ford Transit motor home for its annual pilgrimage to his fathers grave in Lithuania. This morning he's adjusting the brakes. He whistles while he hammers. Here at The Rickety Old Farmhouse the water supply stops at seven thirty in the morning. This happens frequently at this time of year. The combine harvesters squash the conduits as they turn off the road into the fields.
Electronic signs on the motorway usually tell us to maintain a safe distance from the car in front or 'Beware. Errant animal at junction 6'. After the Bastille Day carnage they're preaching those sacred republican virtues : Liberte - Egalite - Fraternite. Each of the words spelt out in large pixelated letters. Fraternity is in distinctly short supply.
On our way home we slow for a police road block. Four young gendarmes with machine pistols are standing at the crossroads checking the non-existent traffic. They look bored as indeed you might if you were sent out to patrol traffic in the middle of nowhere. We wave. They wave back. Seems Volvo drivers are considered to be unlikely Jihadists. The gendarmes have the air of young men who know that if they were on duty in town they could at least chat up the girls.
Lamb has now had the squeaker definitively removed. This is a blessing. A hole with stuffing poking out of it indicates where Sophie has been at work.
After that it's a day for doing nothing - in Sophie's case inelegantly. Carrots from the chiller tray are a great treat on a hot day like today. Taking the PONS entirely off wheat based snacks has cured their itchy ears.