The morning croissant run. Young foals penned with their mothers on the rich grass down by the stream . Some sleeping, some grazing. All legs and innocence.
In the little market town another 'antiques' market. What time must these people get up ? It's barely gone seven and already trestle tables are beginning to line the street. A coachload of Belgian tourists doing some pre-breakfast bargain hunting. The term ' antique ' once again proving to have a different meaning in France. Bob eyes up a rather frightening doll that looks as though it's had a long career in 'C' list horror movies. We move on. A hat stall with a large pile of black berets. '' Very popular " says the owner clearly hoping Angus might buy one.
Midnight. Sophie gives us a scare. Bob barks. Not his usual ' let's party ' bark. A ' you'd better get down here quickly ' bark. Sophie's not well. She can't stand,has become separated from her dinner, and is trembling. A quick dash to the vet. She's eaten a poisonous toad. Two injections. One to deal with the venom, another to deal with the shock. This morning she's as right as rain. Has anyone else noticed how dogs are always taken ill late at night, at weekends, or on national holidays ? Once again we're thankful for the kindness and dedication of a slightly bleary eyed vet.
