The well in the garden has run dry. It usually runs out of water at the end of June or early July but for the last three weeks the local farmers have had their huge field sprinkler systems running 24/7. The water table has now fallen way below the level of our well shaft. A severe summer drought now looks like a fair bet.
Angus struggles with the dead irrigation system. He switches the supply valve from well water to town water. The PONs look on encouragingly. The mayor arrives to borrow the step ladders. Last week he'd put out the flags on the war memorial for VE Day. He was supposed to take them down after three days but sometimes, in a village of 67 souls, things just get forgotten. '' Better late than never " he says cheerily. For the task he's wearing his dungarees and red tartan pork pie hat.
Bob makes strange facial expressions. I'd worried that his tooth might be hurting him. The vet has looked at the damaged incisor again. The good news is that the nerve has been left covered and unharmed despite him losing a third of his tooth. He is a lucky boy. The strange facial expressions are just that - strange facial expressions.
Finally, after the daily start the day disagreement over who should sit on the right side of the car and who should sit on the left the PONs lapse into silence and we head off. Today is cheese shopping day.
A Banon and a Candourin for 'The Font'. Some Abbaye Citeaux and Cure Nantais for Angus. Overly ripe and very runny Brie de Melun for the PONs. The pretty girl behind the counter laughs as they lick her fingers. Bob gives her his ' I love you. I really love you ' look. Sophie is rendered silent by the glorious taste of the pungent Brie.
A quick detour to the florists for a pepper plant. The florists is dark and mysterious inside. There are buckets of water everywhere. The PONs drink from them. Loudly. Their beards leave a trail of water droplets on the pavement as they go.
So starts our Wednesday morning.
Bob and Sophie watch the school bus pass the gate.The five year olds press their noses against the windows and wave . There is something about French villages that was lost in the anglo-saxon world long ago. Innocence ?
An article in The Guardian says that pubs and bars are closed in Australia on Good Friday. This seems highly improbable - Good Friday or, come to that, any day of the Oz year.
It's hot. The weather forecast says there's going to be rain on Sunday and for the following week. The garden needs it. Angus puts up a pair of linen curtains at the front door to keep the sun, the bees and the wisteria blossom out of the house. Sophie is told it's not a good idea to chew the bottom of the curtains. She feigns deafness.
Caroline, the cleaning lady, arrives. '' Look at the mess these dogs have made ! I sometimes wonder why I bother ". Should someone point out that's what dogs do and that what she's paid to deal with ? 'The font' says we're very lucky to have someone so fastidious. I'd settle for Madame Bay's cheerful, but illogical, method of redistributing the dust.
They've cut the grass verges along the lane. The PON duo find a walk through cool, freshly cut grass to be delightful. They gambol like lambs. Their coats have turned green by the time we reach home. Sophie rests her head on the box hedge and falls asleep.
Simnel cake. The name sounds as though it's an old European custom but apparently its only the Brits and Irish who bake them. This doesn't stop Madame Bay from trying a piece - twice.
First light. Bob and Sophie get harnessed up. We go outside. Before I can lock the front door Bob decides to go back inside . Sophie follows. Sophie comes back outside. Bob rushes round the house looking for 'the font' . Bob is finally coaxed into the courtyard and into the back of the car. He then leaps out of the car in hot pursuit of a blackbird. The offer of a kibble and he clambers back in. Why the simple act of getting out of the house should generate so much daily excitement remains a mystery of dog ownership.
Our morning routine. To the Cafe for an illicit half croissant, a visit to the bakers, a detour to the strawberry farm for two tubs of fresh gariguettes. A walk by the stream where Bob displays his inept fishing skills. Finally, a quick tour of the village. Very Old Farmer, Old Widow,Old Farmer, municipal workman on the tractor - all greeted. By nine the little angels are exhausted.
Home. This morning the two of them decide to sleep on the creaky wooden staircase. A previous generation of PON's did the same thing. Elder, ever watchful, brother dozing on the higher step. Younger sibling snoring, indecorously, on the step below. Can they sense that their predecessors slept in this same spot ? Perhaps all dog owners have this sense of deja vu ?
