Hot and cloudy. One of those mornings when it seems like someones taken a woollen blanket, soaked it in hot water, then wrapped it round your shoulders. The road repair gang must agree. They started work at six o'clock. Bob was soon at the garden gate to welcome them. 37 degrees forecast for this afternoon.
The garlic festivities into a second day. Outside the little market towns 1 star hotel a bevy of fancy cars with Paris plates. The great and the good of the garlic world here en masse. We pass a solitary old farmer sitting at a table in the market hall to escape the heat . Tonight the chairs will be filled for a festive dinner and the award of the 'Miss Garlic 2013' title.
Bob and Sophie are each given a small 50 cent Chevre batonette from the stall selling garlic sausage.They sit by me at the cafe under the arcades and chew contentedly on this delicacy. A previous generation of PON's used to enjoy a similar seasonal treat. The waitress brings them the mandatory, shared, half croissant. She laughs. The beer and absinthe crowd laugh. A table of four Belgian tourists laugh. A happy circle of continuity.
'The font' takes Bob off for an hours worth of shopping and socializing . Sophie heads off with me for a walk round the village. At the horse field we stop. Sophie sits, entranced, at the sight of two horses happily eating the mallow hedge. Ten minutes of amazement. The village pottery festival now a mere week and a half away. No sign, yet, of the promised repair to the pottery kiln.
So starts a summer Wednesday in deepest, deepest France profonde.
