I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks; and ever thanks.

We never check bags. This time we did, just as two French airport unions decide to go on strike. Net result ? Our luggage is somewhere else.

Mid afternoon. A phone call from the airport to say some bags have arrived. They may be ours . 'The font' goes to Toulouse to pick them up. The bags are a different shape and colour to the missing items. There's also more of them. Seven in total - we've mislaid two. The airport staff seem indifferent to these anomalies. In the evening an e-mail with a fresh complication. The IT system that tracks lost bags at Heathrow has 'broken down'.

Bob and Sophie remain resolutely oblivious to the vagaries of French work practices or software glitches. They start their day with enthusiasm and end it with their enthusiasm undimmed. At sunset Sophie can be found in the courtyard listening to the music that dogs can hear and humans can't. Bob chases blackbirds.

We know who we are, but know not what we may be.

We're up at first light. While Bob and Sophie have breakfast Angus loads the bags into the back of the car and prints out the boarding passes. Afterwards there's just enough time for a quick walk across the village green before we have to be on our way to the kennels and the airport. We'll be in Scotland until Sunday.

Bob, tail wagging twenty to the dozen, is gloriously unaware that there's a change to his daily routine. The same cannot be said for his sister. Sophie has a canniness that belies her tender years. She is doing an impersonation of Miss Glum.

'' It'll be a great adventure " I find myself saying to 'the font' and Bob and Sophie as we head off.

What's done cannot be undone.

Out early with Bob. The ground coated hard with frost. Overhead the frigid air from the Atlantic battling it out with the warm air from North Africa. Something matchless about this winter daybreak. The sky as stratified as any rock formation - pink and ochre and grey and blue. The sort of morning you want to breath deep.  

The sub zero temperatures have brought the deer out in search of food. Ten or so standing at the crossroads. More in the beech copse by the stream. Bob is on high alert, straining at the leash. He sees the movement of the deer long before I do. The occasional excited whimper  - " I could catch them ". ' In your dreams ' I find myself saying out loud. 

The mayor is also up early. He's removing the Armistice Day wreaths from the war memorial. We chat about driving licenses. He can't issue them but the town hall in the little market town probably can. Half a dozen deer suddenly leap over the churchyard wall and gallop, a moving thicket of legs, across the village green and down the lane. Such a simple sight but such a privilege to watch.

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

Armistice Day. A national holiday in France. The mayor atop  a set of stepladders fixing flags to the front of the war memorial. '' Bonjour M'Ongoose. Bonjour Bhub ". Bhub responds with an enthusiastic whohoohoof of greeting quite disproportionate to the gentleness of our surroundings.

Bhub is in 'the fonts' bad books. Yesterday mornings walk round the lake was a disaster. Or rather Bhub thought yesterdays walk was a triumph. The Sunday morning fisherman who saw a small black and white bear fish a trout out of his bucket, wave it around in the air and then swallow it whole, was less sure. Bucket to stomach in ten seconds. '' Two hours it took me to catch that ! " he says with what minimum of good grace he can muster. 'The font' apologizes profusely and ( lamely ) offers to buy him a new fish. This elicits a grunt. The atmosphere round the lake turns chilly. Bob returns home with a wet muzzle and a look that cries out ' this boy done good '.

Apologies for those who commented when this post was firs put on the screen at eight this morning. For some reason Firefox has decided to delete it during the course of the morning. The second time this has happened.Rewritten from memory.

God has given you one face , and you make yourself another

Having lost  2 1/2 kilos in as many days Sophie is determined to eat. In fact she's practising for the Olympic gold medal in eating.

The PON's are not allowed in the dining room. Nor are they allowed on the furniture. A couple of simple house rules.  Imagine our surprise when, after clearing the dinner plates, we return to find Sophie standing on the dining table finishing off a platter of chicken. The little angel has crept in, clambered up on a chair and then launched herself onto the table where the goodies are. This is nothing if not enterprising. Her brother wouldn't dream of doing this.

Was it only six months ago we were worried that Sophie was too shy and retiring ? She gives me an independent '' a girls got to do what a girls got to do  " look before being bundled outside. She is firmly told that this is a routine that will not be repeated.

A ministering angel shall my sister be.

 

Harvest heat. Our first hundred degree day of the year. Breakfast eaten in the shade of the cherry orchard while giant  combines whirr in the valley below.  By mid-morning the fields of  grain shorn to patches of golden stubble. Beyond the crossroads the first sunflowers starting to bloom. 

Bob and Sophie play under the irrigation system. Sophie manages to remain dry, Bob gets soaked. A dripping  'old man of the sea' type figure appearing in the kitchen for lunch. A quick nap then they're back out again. Sophie , nimble and spry ( and smarter ? ) , running ahead of the water jets ; Bob drenched by them. Time enough in the evening to bark at a lorry carrying grain to the silo. To bed at ten. Then untroubled sleep through to six thirty.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come .

A battle getting them into the car. A battle getting them out. Finally Bob and Sophie are standing in the centre of the covered market ready for their trip to the cafe under the arcades. Collars, name tags and leads all in place for their great adventure.  

A journey of twenty yards. But my goodness what a twenty yards !  Each of the markets pillars sniffed, sniffed again, marked, then sniffed again for good measure.  Bob wants to go left. Sophie wants to go right. We end up doing both .  A pile of pigeon guano. Bob lets out a high pitched squeal of delight. A half can of Coke. This is prodded with little cold, wet noses.  

The lady in the blue dressing gown and red pompom slippers walks over the say hello. She's brought her glass of lager with her. Sophie licks her hand. Bob looks on suspiciously. The two stern gendarmes stop their Renault Megane patrol car . One gets out, smiles, asks their names and tickles each of them behind the ears.  The other gendarme, perhaps mindful of his important republican role , doesn't. Having got the little angels out of the car we now find they don't want to get back into it  - ever. The waitress brings over two coffees. We sit on the back fender, tailgate open, between us two inquisitive faces peering out . Perhaps we'll actually make it into the cafe tomorrow.

Home to flatten what is left of the garden. Sophie recquisitions an old plastic filing tray.

A typical Sunday morning in deepest France Profonde.  .