The immovable Westie.

Bob, Sophie and Angus wander down the lane at first light. At the Y junction, where one branch of the road heads down the hill towards the little stream, we stop. Angus sits , legs dangling over the edge, on the concrete cover of the storm drain. His companions join him - one on either side. A gentle breeze rises from the valley. Bob is told this is his country. Sophie studies a large blue beetle. This is how the builder in his lilac Mitsubishi, the farmer in his little Renault and the boy on the motorcycle heading off to open up the garage find us. Angus halts his discussion on the power struggle in the European Commission long enough to wave at them as they race past. A friend in Berlin has said to Angus that '' People don't object to being lied to, as long as they like the lie ". Bob and Sophie PONder this snippet of political wisdom in silence. After chatting to the donkeys we head home.

Breakfast is devoured, enthusiastically. Then Sophie wanders , alone, round the garden in search of mischief. Her brother settles down at the front door to guard his flock. 

The PONs are left at home while their owners head off to the little market town. We park on the square outside the cathedral. Two ladies are sitting engrossed in conversation when we pass. A Westie sits quietly on the ground under their bench.

When we return, having done our shopping, visited the bookstore and had a cup of coffee in the station buffet, they are still there. Neither the ladies nor the Westie have moved in forty five minutes.

So begins another hot summers day in deepest, deepest France profonde.