Seventeen potters are expected. Nine show up. Not that this does anything to dampen the villagers excitement. Beautiful weather brings with it a steady stream of cars . Their occupants enthusiastically greeted at the front gate by Bob and Sophie . Visitors and villagers soon mingling at a long, bottle covered, table under the plane trees.
The sixteenth century kiln has run amok. Due to some technical oversight the bricks have melted together into a vitrified lump. Much squabbling of the '' I told you not to let it get too hot ! " , ' You were the idiot who said cheap bricks would do ' variety. In the evening , having allowed time for it to cool, the kiln is opened. There's a sale of items straight from the oven. A crowd of forty or so gather round expectantly. Suffice it to say that the extreme heat has not been kind to the potters creations.
Bob and Sophie think this has been one of the best days - ever.
High summer. A group of German painters in the village square. A folkloric festival in the local market town. The whole of France about to close the shutters and sink into a heat drenched stupor.
On our morning walk we meet the ancient priest leaving the old abbey church. The steeple was hit by lightning in last months storms. He takes us into to see a side chapel where building materials are being stacked up. '' Heaven alone knows when they'll start the repairs ". Seems we're not the only ones who have problems with the local tradesmen.
Late at night we head off to an outdoors music festival. A youngish lady in a slightly too short cocktail dress is performing on a stage in front of the town hall. She's backed by three pony tailed gentlemen with guitars. '' Sounds of the Pampas - French folk songs the Argentinian way " says the poster. The youngish lady is very enthusiastic. Her audience, lulled by the heavy heat, less so. A gaggle of toddlers sit in front of the stage clapping with their hands above their heads. Bob and Sophie settle under a table and are soon asleep. They wake briefly when they hear one of the pony tailed gentlemen start to play the castanets.
The swimming pool cover repairmen drop off the missing screws in the post box. Why they would drive all this way and not fix them in place is a further mystery of French after sales service.
The builder phones at ten on Saturday night. Could he just 'pop by' on Sunday afternoon ? In other words can he bring over his bill and could I have the cheque book open and ready ?
'Work' has started afresh on the 16th century pottery kiln. Quite how it's going to be made ready by next weekend remains to be seen. Sophie demonstrates her community spirit by christening it.
The baker has a new line in 'chilled' cakes. He describes these at length to a client on the other end of the phone. The baker is completely oblivious to the large queue of would be baguette buyers that has built up behind him.
A full throttle day. An unruly flock to herd. Meals to be supervised. Sticks to be retrieved. A garden to be guarded . Lavender to be chewed. A sunset to be watched. The crowded swimming pool to be marvelled at - but avoided. Everything to be participated in . Barely a moment to sit back and relax. This morning , when I come downstairs , Bob and Sophie are still asleep. A first .
The 'bad farmer' comes to take away the two cows from the field across the lane . For four years they've suffered periods of abject neglect interspersed with (briefer) moments of good stewardship. We've watered them in summer and shooed them off the roses in Spring. Now the wide eyed sisters are coaxed onto a crowded truck to be driven to Italy to be fattened up. A thousand mile journey in searing heat. A vignette of village life too inconsequential to be noted in a diary but recorded on this blog because it won't be recorded anywhere else. The rhythm of life in deepest France profonde.
