Can a dog look happy ? You tell me. Bob is waiting outside the bedroom door. His tail goes whack,whack,whack on the floor. The PON '' Is it time for a walk ? " look. Sophie tries to catch a few more moments of beauty sleep.
Bob's day gets better. After the illicit half croissant and chat with the beer and absinthe crowd at the cafe under the arcades he heads off to the fancy bakers. His sister bounces along behind. The bakers wife, who has recently had a baby, has that slightly bad tempered air of someone who's been awake all night dealing with gripe. Despite her grumpiness Bob and Sophie are given some tiny slivers of choux pastry. Bob's tail does its metronome routine.
The cheese lady has some freshly delivered Livarot . She patiently explains to me how the Normandy farmers bind the cheese with strands of marsh grass. Bobs day hit its high spot when he gets given a sliver of rind. Sophie also gets a piece and lets out a high pitched noise that says she doesn't know how else to express her joy.
Over dinner American man asks why our neighbour has an flashing star on a twenty foot pole attached to the roof of his house. '' It's a French thing " I reply .
Hot and humid. The sort of day that addles the brain. Sophie finds herself a shady spot in the garden and savages a stick. Bob lies at the front door and chills .
Off to the museum of table settings with American visitors. Huge rooms starved of furniture. We're the only people there. Upstairs a new gallery dedicated to door jambs. American woman thinks it's very relaxing. American man is less sure.
Angus has the high points of the table settings museum off pat. Square medieval plates and eighteenth century place settings with the knife and fork facing the wrong way. American man says he's read that our departement is the least visited in France. 'Can't be because of the cultural offerings' he adds. Tomorrow we'll go to the museum of secateurs.
I'm told this is one of the most difficult pieces of violin music to play. Stay with it until the 3.20 mark and you'll understand why.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCsiJ_fasDk
Apologies to those of you who commented earlier. The curse of Google has unexpectedly wiped out this mornings post. Here it is again, or as much of it as I can remember.
Our morning walks starting later. Darkness crowding in at either end of the day. On the road down to the valley three shapes visible in the half light. Calves who have got out of their enclosure and are feasting on the rich grass along the roadside verge. Bob wants to stay and talk. Sophie pulls us on.
A half croissant for the noisy siblings. They exude happiness. A bowl of water completes their delight. In the local paper an article about Scottish independence. The tone somewhere between glee ( serves the English right ) and disbelief ( couldn't happen here ). On the next page a story about tractomaniaques who venture out sightseeing on old tractors. 50 vintage vehicles set off in convoy on Sunday morning . Angus is glad he wasn't behind them.
Here's some Beethoven . http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dpxbp7WPVfQ
It's hotter than it's been all year. By eight thirty the town square is coming alive. Bob and Sophie settle down under a table and watch a talkative lady in a red dress. They get given a bowl of water. Sadly, the upmarket establishment we've chosen for our morning coffee does not serve its canine customers half croissants.
On our way home we pass an ancient tank. It broke down during yesterdays military parade and has spent the night marooned outside the town hall. A posse of soldiers with a winch haul it onto an equally ancient lorry. Sophie looks at it from behind the safety of my legs. Bob, the more adventurous, christens the tanks tracks. A PON boys surefire way of derisking a possible threat. We see the tank again at the traffic lights. It's got lost in the one way system.
An expert has been sent by the prefecture to talk about the battle of Bertrix in 1914. A battle in which four of the village boys died. The mayor stands up mutters something inaudible by way of introduction then sits down. His wife whispers something to him. He stands up again. ' Tonights speaker is Monsieur ' - he pauses and looks at his piece of paper - ' Durville. Did I say it right ? '. The expert nods. The mayor is wearing a green plaid shirt and his formal blazer with bronze buttons. He's sockless with open toed sandals. As The Old Farmer has shown up in his voluminous khaki shorts and suede jacket with tassles the mayors sartorial shortcomings can be forgiven.
The expert talks eloquently about how the French were ambushed. Their blue and red uniforms making them easy targets. He reads a letter from a young conscript, the third name on the village war memorial. " Chere Maman. I can't tell you where we are but everything here is so different. Even the cows are different ! I have been on a train ". The excitement of a farm boy on his first, and last, trip away from home. By some quirk of fate the regimental Quartermaster had mislaid the summer uniforms and so off they went into battle in the August heat wearing winter issue red woolen trousers and blue frock coats. They sang 'Ah! Ca ira' as they went.
This morning there is a Memorial Service in the big market town. The ancient combatants line the bridge with their tricoleurs, people mill around, the beer and absinthe crowd settle down to watch. There's a parade of vintage vehicles. A dignitary makes a speech that invokes the glorious triumph of the Republican spirit over foreign aggression. A choir sings. The beer and absinthe crowd order a second round.
Bobs favourite position is head out of the front door, rump in the hallway. This way he can monitor all the comings and goings at the Rickety Old Farm house. 'The font' exits by way of the kitchen door. This causes much consternation. There's a ' how did that happen ? ' furrowing of the eyebrows.
The beefsteak fungus in the tree stump continues to grow. If it carries on growing like this it'll soon be a side of beef fungus. Sophie loves this foul, olfactory delight.
The lady with the beehive hairdo arrives at the gate . '' I'm so glad you're home. There's a talk in the Salle des Fetes tomorrow night. A man's coming from the prefecture. You will be able to come ? ". The final sentence said with enough desperation to make us agree we'll be there. The invites were supposed to have been sent out ten days ago but somehow our new village secretary has forgotten to send them. She's unsure what the talk is about.
First light. The angelic duo are waiting for me outside the bedroom door. To say they are waiting patiently would be stretching a point. Their unfettered zest for life continues to amaze. One day they'll slow down, like their master, but for the time being they're natures reminder that life should only be lived in the fast happy lane.
In the afternoon the fuel delivery man comes. Time, while it's cheap(ish), to fill up the heating tanks for the winter. Put it down to Swedish forethought. Bob tries to chew the fuel line and is banished indoors. Sophie considers the fuel truck to be a work of the devil so she barks at it from the upstairs terrace. Her super loud ''Be gone Satan's spawn " bark . The fuel truck goes. Sophie settles down content that she's saved her family.
We're cutting across the sunflower fields when the phone rings. Serious men in dark suits from Beijing. Seven thirty in the morning here but mid-afternoon there. I sit down on a tree stump. They probably think I'm in an office in London. Little do they know we're out in the countryside with a Polish Lowland Sheepdog who's entertaining himself by foraging for desicated mice under the oak trees. Bob doesn't bark. He's wise to our little masquerade. His tail wags a lot.
Sophie, who is an inveterate yelper, has thankfully stayed at home to help with the preparation of Turbot poche, sauce hollandaise. She'd have blown my cover.
Bob is keen to get the day started. Artichoke hearts from the greengrocer; cheese, potato and cauliflower pasta from the delicatessen and Rondin de Bigorre from the cheese lady. This last might as well be called ' Kick of the Mule '. Bob gets a sliver and gives it a vote of 100/10. He does his soft shoe shuffle.
Mid afternoon. The sound of a crunching gears precedes the arrival of Madame Bay and the increasingly battered 'Wild Child' voiturette. She makes a resplendent figure in her black and turquoise two piece with matching turban. Madame Bay has been visiting the Very Old Farmer in hospital. The old man has been on a drip for the the last two weeks. It was finally taken out on Sunday. Somehow the staff forgot to reinstate his pain medication. Whenever the doctor came by to check on him the VOF would nod and say everything was ok in that way the very old do. It took our doughty ex-cleaning lady to discover that he was in great pain and couldn't sleep at night. The doctor was summoned. When told by the ward sister that the doctor was busy Madame Bay 'created a scene'. We are not told what this entailed but the VOF is now on pain killers.
The sun rises into a cloudless sky. A real Indian summer. Down in the valley the farmers have started to harvest the sunflowers. The clouds of chaff a sure sign the year is about to turn a page. Here at the Rickety Old Farmhouse Sophie continues to glare at the birds nesting in the wisteria. From time to time she'll briefly race off to join Bob on guard at the front gate. Passing pilgrims merit a quick yelp and then she's back to deal with the wrens.
'The mystery of the Hanging Garden of Babylon' written by Stephanie Dalley, a Fellow of the Royal Society of Antiquaries. Thoughtful, measured, difficult at times but an absolute delight. She sifts through the ancient texts to let us know where the gardens were and what they looked like. History as detective mystery. Not often you come across a book that contains a line like this : "As an Assyriologist I work on clay tablets written in cuneiform script by Babylonians and Assyrians ". It seems there is as much literature from Nebuchadnezzars time as there is Latin text. The perfect book when you have two PON's at your feet and a glass of champagne in your hand.
Not a cloud in sight. We wander down to the old pilgrim church and sit on the steps outside listening to the organist practising for the ten o'clock mass. Sophie soon turns on her back and falls asleep. Bob keeps one eye open in case there should be passing wolves. The ever serious family fellow.
Back in the village the cycling club and the hunters association have double booked the Salle des Fetes. No one seems particularly bothered. A trestle table is set up and the hunters enjoy a convivial pre-breakfast glass of Floc. The cyclists join them. The sense of conviviality increases.
Sophie continues to guard the house against the nesting wrens and goldfinches. This has become her life's work.
Bob goes through the day with the happy air of someone who is continually and pleasantly surprised.
