It rains overnight but Armistice Day dawns bright and fair.
Bob and his master head across the fields to the little 12th century chapel. There are usually one or two pilgrims around resting their feet or taking a break from their journey but this morning there's not a soul to be seen.
Sophie's nose continues to display a most amazing lustre.
Back in the village the 11.00 am Armistice Day ceremony gets underway at 11.15. The mayor reads, inaudibly, the message from the President. The names of the village dead recited. 'Mort pour la France' intoned after each name. Everyone present, with the exception of Angus, related by blood to the fading names on the memorial. The first name that of the Mayors great uncle. Dead within a week. The youngest villagers, as is the custom, lay a wreath. This year it's two slightly bemused three year olds. Their mothers beam proudly. The little lady in the purple hat sings, as she sings every year, the Marseillaise slowly and wistfully. Nothing grand about it - more a love song to lost boys. The church bells ring. The pigeons on the belfry take wing. This is the unchanging France far from the cities and motorways.
After the ceremony, over a glass of champagne in The Rickety Old Farmhouse, Monsieur Bay tells me a joke.
Britain and America are in a bar having a drink.
Britain: "Brexit was the stupidest most self-destructive act a country could ever undertake".
America: "Hold my drink and watch this ! "