Sunflowers at dawn.

We leave the front door at 6:18 and head off down the lane. It's not quite light but it's no longer completely dark.

The rising sun is just brushing the sunflower fields. For a moment they shimmer red, then brown then burst into a riot of yellows and orange. Only dog owners and early rising farmers are aware of this morning miracle.

By the time we've said hello to the goats, welcomed the new calves that have arrived overnight and waved at the young garagiste in his little black Citroen with the raspy exhaust note, the ridge is bathed in light.

The PONs are loaded into the back of the car. Monsieur Bay and his retired gendarme colleagues are holding a ceremony in the little market town  to commemorate the regions liberation in WW2. The village wasn't actually liberated - great events just flowed around it - but it's the idea that counts. A woman in white trousers (who is the spitting image of the British Prime Minister but shorter) is ordering people around. From time to time she raises a black walking stick and waves it menacingly. It's unclear as to whether she's about to whack someone with it or is merely using it to point out the direction they're supposed to march towards. 

At the bakers a strange green mound lurks towards the back of the display cabinet. It's the sort of 'particular' colour an upper east side interior designer might use.

Fruit, other than strawberries, makes an appearance.

A song about walls. Best listened to with the volume up and the car windows down. The PONs love it. Thursday morning sounds : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BdF41Ne2cnQ