All Saints Day.

As we head out of the gate we see deer grazing on the village green. Bob is all for giving chase but is 'discouraged' from doing so and is put on his lead. Angus sits on the concrete lip of the storm drain and dangles his legs over the side. The male PON sits next to him. This morning, as every morning, it's explained that this is Bobs Country. The donkeys have worked their way down to the far corner of the field and can be seen reaching up to eat the walnuts that grow along the river bank. Dog and master look at them for a while and then, satisfied that all's well with the world, return home.

The menu at the soon to close hotel in the little market town offers goose gizzard Cassoulet. This together with the brochette of duck hearts indicates that we are in deepest, deepest France profonde. Bob thinks everything on the menu sounds wonderful. The fact the hotel is closing tells us that even in this most conservative of regions culinary preferences are becoming healthier .

All Saints Day. The flower seller has encroached onto three parking spaces. There's something about chrysanthemum colours that stops them from being joyous.

On our way home Bob and his best friend park the car and walk down the hill to the valley. Not a soul to be seen. Just the ears of hares stoicking out comically from their forms, nervous deer and now pheasants. Lots and lots of noisy pheasants.

All the fields have been ploughed and the countryside now has something of the look of the desert. Give it a week and some rain and the winter wheat will be poking through. It's been warm enough to sit outside in shirt sleeves but a sharp drop in temperatures is forecast for Thursday. Sophie will need to recuperate in the kitchen.

This little farm house halfway down the hill looks strangely isolated.