Sacrosanct.

Six thirty am. The pool man phones to say he'll be here in ten minutes. Thanks for the heads up. There is a mad dash to shift the cars so that the pool mans cement mixer can have unimpeded access to the outside taps. This sounds easy but nothing unexpected, at break of day, is that easy.

Sophie is unimpressed by this change to her morning routine. Somethings are sacrosanct. She tries to hide her impatience but doesn't succeed.

When we do get underway we come across a team of workmen cleaning the bulbs on the street lights. One man goes up the hydraulic lift, unscrews the lamp cover, removes the bulb, washes it, replaces it and the cover, lowers the lift, clambers down and then settles into the trucks passenger side seat. At each light his mate lays out, then collects, no less than six traffic calming cones. He  stands, with a walkie talkie, in the middle of the road to direct any traffic. There is no traffic - this being a small village in the middle of a national lockdown.  The village has twenty street lights so I'm guessing the workmen are going to be here all day. Sophie stands rooted to the spot. She is completely transfixed by this repetitive, balletic,  activity. The unsmiling workmen try to ignore us. I try to ignore them. Sophie is keen to move from supervising to becoming fully involved. She is 'encouraged' along.

Two women from the local wimmins cooperative painting the metal gate on the house by the war memorial. Sophie is intrigued by what they're doing and stands silently , tail waving, watching them. After a brief catch up with the the ladies  on how this years alpaca wool harvest has been ( long term readers will remember Elio the priapic Llama ) we move on.

 So starts a morning  - with a sheepdog -  in a small French village.