The PON's are keen to get the day started. That canine ' what's taking you so long ? ' look. The first local cherries in the greengrocers. The shift from strawberries to cherries to melons to peaches part of the rhythm of life in south west France. Everything grown within a mile or two of home. Fruit that tastes of sun, honeybees and wild grasses. Little did we know when we came to live here that such simple routines would become so important.
While the angelic duo share their illicit half croissant, the beer and absinthe set start on their second Pelforth of the morning. The lady in the blue dressing gown and pom pom slippers is wearing her hair net this morning. Underneath it a forest of red curlers. In the car park a farmer has parked his venerable Daihatsu next to us. A welcoming committee watch Bob and Sophie return. Bob and Sophie are oblivious to their presence. Amazingly, the three watching sheepdogs are absolutely still ... and quiet. They're clearly not Polish Sheepdogs.
The roses are having a great year. Their boughs weighed down with buds. As an experiment we've planted standards roses in pots at the front door. The man at David Austin roses said it was difficult to grow them like this. '' You'll have to make sure they're well supported ". They've withstood the gales and a blanketing of wisteria leaves but haven't , yet, joined the others in full flower.
Bob's tail continues to wag all day. The body says what words cannot. He's the poster boy of happy dogs. Enthusiasm for everything. His sisters tail doesn't wag all day but her nose is very wet, and very cold, and gets everywhere.
At 6:30 the PON's are up and wondering when they're going to go for a walk. We used to have breakfast and then go for a walk. Now with the heat rising we go for a walk and then have breakfast.
Sophie heads off with 'the font' for a jog round the lake. Bob heads off with me to look at the frogs in the pond and walk to the edge of his known universe - the Old Widows house by the crossroads. He carefully christens the road sign at the junction. Then it's time to come home. 16 months old and already some routines are sacrosanct. A fact of life dog owners will understand and non-dog owners will think is lunacy.
Before the sun is fully up I've already found myself laughing out loud at his antics. I'd never thought we'd have another family fellow like the last one. I'm changing my mind. When we get home Sophie is under the cherry trees in the orchard. She's snoring like a trooper.
VE Day. On our morning walk we see that the mayor has been up at the crack of dawn to put out the flags on the village war memorial. May is a month of bank holidays in France. Three of them, all falling on a Thursday. This of course means that most people take the Wednesday and the Friday off too. Luckily this year we don't need the electrician, the plumber or the builder.
In the little market town they've also got the flags out. Four wreaths laid on the cobbles in front of the war memorial. Blue chrysanthemums in vogue this year. To add gravitas the flower beds are decorated with tricolors and the greengrocers cardboard boxes have been stacked in an orderly pile.
We've missed the wreath laying but are just in time to see a stage being set up outside the town hall. The ancient combatants are having a bingo morning. And not just any bingo morning ! Mickey and Minnie Mouse are there to read out the numbers. Bob doesn't seem bothered by the incongruous sight of two enormous mice. Sophie is altogether less happy. She observes proceedings from a safe position behind 'the fonts' legs. By eleven the ancient combatants are onto their third glass of wine and the bingo is becoming more animated. A rather jovial lady in a red baseball cap joins Mickey and Minnie on the stage. She tries to get them to dance. They seem less than keen. What they're saying to each other behind their perma-smiles is any one's guess. Through it all the old soldiers fill out their bingo cards and drink, merrily, away. After a tapas lunch there's a lottery .
The polished sophistication of life in deepest,deepest France profonde.
A family of deer grazing on the walnut trees in the corner of the garden. They scatter when the PON duo coming hurtling out of the front door. After breakfast Bob and Sophie get a dose of Frontline and new Scalibor collars. With this hot, humid, weather they're getting an application of Frontline every three weeks. We find a large, fresh, tick on Bob's tail. It's that time of year again.
At the fishmonger Limande Cardine. Neither the fishmonger nor we are sure whether this is, or is not, Lemon sole. It's shaped like Lemon sole but the colours not right. More tangerine than lemon.
On our way home we take a detour down to the old Roman Road. Two local farmers have parked their vans at the spot where we turn off to the stream. Sophie lets them know in no uncertain terms that they're trespassing on HER turf. Bob is interested but not bothered.
A trip to the fishmongers for some Loup de Mer. For Bob and Sophie it gets better. At our next stop the cheese lady offers both PON's a tiny sliver of Pont l'Éveque. Bob is so overcome with joy he does his soft shoe shuffle dance. Paws go in different directions , legs move up and down, the tail waves wildly, the furry head waves from side to side. He displays his overbite. When we first saw this routine we thought he was having a seizure. Now we know this is what happens when you try to squeeze a quart of joy into a PON sized body. '' My oh my ! He's a happy boy " says the fish lady. We finally stop of at the bakers where we buy two slices of blue cake. Bob's tail is still waving.
What a difference twenty five years makes.Here are two videos of Scotlands unofficial national anthem. The first showing how it was played in 1990. Then it had a somewhat louche beat to it. The sort of light, waltzy, thing a slightly inebriated Italian waiter might sing on a quiet night in a cafe on the Amalfi coast. You can hear it here.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNVHRdORy3Y
These days it's quite different. The waltziness has gone. Replaced by something altogether more serious. This 'enthusiastic' French television commentator thinks the end result is the most 'magnificent hymn in the world'. Hmmmm. What a contrast with the English anthem that precedes it.
The amorous owls start hooting just after one and finish at four forty. The one on the church roof calls to the one on the ledge outside the bedroom window. He ( or she, my knowledge of owl calls being limited ) hails the one along the lane. So it goes on, all down the valley. Eagle Owl heaven. From time to time the PON duo join in. And some folk think the countryside is quiet !
A mountain storm builds up. The skies suddenly heavy and grey. In the field by the stream the young calves look suspiciously at Bob and Sophie. Two mothers position themselves, protectively, between the PON's and their newly born . We walk by quickly. After their illicit half croissant at the cafe Bob and Sophie bark at a few tractors then repair to the kitchen where they make themselves 'comfortable'. They're tired out after a busy night.
The beautiful weather brings out the pilgrims. Masses of them. Some walking, some on horseback, most in cars. A couple in a motor home with Paris number plates stop and ask , as if it's the sort of thing they do every day, for directions to the Holy Well. They park by the church and head off down the hill holding large plastic water bottles. What do people do with water from a Holy Well ?
Sophie has got bored of pilgrims. She doesn't rush over and bark every time she hears one go by. Bob hasn't reached this stage yet. He takes guarding as a serious 24/7 job. The stump seat an excellent accessory.
In the evening we walk down to the stream. A local farmer has driven through with his tractor and churned up the river bank. It's gloriously muddy. Bob tries his hand at fishing. '' Perhaps if you tried to be stealthy "' I find myself saying. He sploshes contentedly, and noisily, in the water.
Congratulations to those of you who recognized the object in yesterdays quiz for what it was, A baguette box. Every morning the bakers wife can be seen driving around in her little white van popping the morning bread into these little tubes. As they say " Only in France ". Newspapers here are delivered with the post.
By the greengrocers a sleeping sheepdog wakes up, briefly, and looks at Sophie.
A band of thirty pilgrims come through the village singing. They are carefully scrutinized.
There's roast chicken for dinner. While it's cooking Sophie catches up on her beauty sleep.
Two old gentlemen in berets put the world to rights. One of them tickles Sophie behind the ear.
The villagers play Petanque in the car park until midnight. Bob watches them.
We'd call it quiet but for two young PON's it's a weekend of endless excitement.
All our neighbours have one of these by their post box. Do you know what it's for ?
It's cloudy and grey. The two PON's spend much of their day inside out of the rain. The downstairs hallway turns into a sort of battle zone. Sophie discovers that in a game of tug of war with Bob the best thing to do is turn on your side and become a dead weight. Her recently added pounds help. Bob can be seen pulling Sophie along corridors and across floors. Both consider this to be great fun. Sophie squeals with delight.
Sophie finds a yellow plastic carrier bag. This is shredded. When confronted with the evidence she adopts her '' I cannot tell a lie. It was Bob " defence.
It's taken four and a half months but my French Driving License is finally ready at the Prefecture. By the time I've found a parking spot half the population of France are in a queue ahead of me. When called to the window the ice maiden looks at me in a way that suggests that if she had her way I wouldn't be getting a driving license.
Bob has returned from the kennels looking very svelte. Sophie by contrast is looking rather well fed. She's become decidedly curvaceous. Can she really have been stealing ALL her brothers kibbles ? .
The font clears out Angus's old shirts. There was a time when they would have been thrown out. Now the buttons are cut off and they're given to the PON's to play tug of war with. The house is filled with the sound of cotton being shredded. PON satisfaction.
