Shipped off.

To avoid the heat the niece of the little lady with the purple hat is up early working on the flower border round the war memorial. She's pulling out the last of the dead box hedge. Keeping the war memorial tidy is one of those small village duties done in memory of great events. Not just history but deep history. Her great great uncles names the seventh and twelfth on the marble plinth. We exchange pleasantries. '' I've heard eleven different bird songs this morning " she says brightly. As if on cue the cuckoos in the valley start to sing. 'Guess that makes twelve' I reply. We laugh. Sophie has her ears scratched.

The PONs sprint along the lane in the early sunshine. The sun gently warms their fur.  

Sophie hunts, inelegantly, for 'things' in the long grass. She stands, head down, eyes focused, one paw held high in readiness. Every so often she pounces, inelegantly, on something invisible. The pouncing is followed by manic digging. Both paws feverishly working away. She is completely lost to the world outside.

While Sophie digs Bob and Angus sit side by side on the storm drain. Bob is told that this is 'his country'. We discuss world affairs. Last week who had heard of Charlotesville? Our conversation is interrupted by the Senegalese melon pickers driving by in a convoy of small Renaults and Peugeots. At the end of the season these old 'bangers' will be transported to Dakar in west Africa. Their owners pride and joy. The melon pickers beep their horns and wave. Faces press against the window. They're probably discussing the madman that sits talking to his dogs on the storm drain.

At the greengrocers Black Crimean Tomatoes.

So starts a quiet Sunday with two extremely happy and healthy PONs. A reminder that away from the newspaper headlines all is well with the world. What more needs to be said ?