On the summit of Cairn O'Mount, between Aberdeenshire and Forfarshire, a solitary piper in full attire. Listening to him play ' Flowers of the Forest ' a group of twenty or so onlookers. Each deep in silent thought. A passing motorist parks and joins them. The piper stops and retrieves a container from his case. The motorist, thinking that the piper is about to ask for donations, digs in his pocket for change. It is only then, with hand outstretched and twenty faces glaring at him, that he recognizes that the container is an urn and that the piper is about to scatter the ashes of a loved one. Listening to this story on the phone Angus is glad that he's not the only one in the family that these embarassing moments happen to.
For those of us here in France a wet and windy day. Atlantic storms whipping off the Bay of Biscay. The washer and drier running round the clock to provide dog towels. The sort of day sane people stay indoors in the warmth. Dog owners do not fall into this category. Bob and Sophie having the wet and muddy time of their lives.
'' Bonjour M'Ongoose. Bonjour Bhub. Bonjour Sophee ". The beer and absinthe crowd at the cafe under the arcades in fine form this morning. Even the lady with the blue toggle dressing gown and pom-pom slippers greets us with a smile. We settle down at a table outside while the waitress goes in search of an illicit half croissant, a bowl of water and a coffee. '' English weather tomorrow " says the man with the maroon metallic motability scooter. By this I presume he means rain. We gently turn down his kind offer of an early morning beer.
' The font ' drives down to Toulouse to spend the night in a hotel. The astronomy exams start at eight in the morning so its either that or setting off at five . A hotel seems a better alternative. For dinner Bob and Sophie have smoked mackerel with their kibbles. The thwack-thwack-thwack , metronome on steroids, sound of Bob's tail against the kitchen door indicating he is one very happy PON. His " I has died and gone to heaven " enthusiasm for new flavours.
Replacement sheets arrive from London. France definitely not the place to buy Emperor sized bedlinen. 24 hour delivery and a shipping charge of less than $10. They are kept well away from Sophie.
An old friend, now at an embassy in Washington, calls for a chat. He says the White House switchboard greets callers with a recorded message : '' We apologise, but due to the lapse in federal funding, we are unable to take your call ". This surely must be urban legend . Can things really have gone this far ?
The morning croissant run with Bob and Sophie. We pass a new age travellers caravan on our way into town. A horse pulling, two mules tethered behind. A curmudgeonly old dog slowly leading the way. The new age traveller is sitting with his feet dangling over the side of the wagon happily talking to the horse. Life at two miles an hour.
Clouds over the sunflower fields. The local paper says that during Tuesday nights storms there were 2883 lightning strikes in the departement. How do they know ?
We haven't seen much of Madame Bay since the builders arrived on May 23rd. The house too dusty for her to clean . From time to time she would make a brief appearance to tell the workmen to wipe their shoes or update us on the complicated love life of the woman who runs the horse farm. This morning she appears in the gold metallic 'Wild Child' voiturette with her hairdresser daughter Sandrine tightly squeezed into the passenger seat.
Madame Bay is to retire. '' Sad I know but it can't be helped. I'm needed in the salon ". Sandrine rolls here eyes as if to say the last thing she needs is her mother spending any more time in the salon. '' Don't you go worrying. I'll teach the new girl how to do things properly ". Girl in this sense means someone under the age of seventy five.
' The font ' sighs. The interaction of a new cleaning lady with Madame Bay likely to be a diplomatic challenge.
