Hot. Up into the 30's. For non-metric readers that's 90 degrees plus. The PON's doze, chase pigeons and then doze some more. The morning trip to the cafe under the arcades now undertaken at seven when the air is still cool.
Bob is keen to take his squeaky toy with him to the afternoon rugby match. I explain that this may not project a suitably 'rugby playing' image. He settles for a carrot from the chiller compartment of the fridge.
The roses this year growing rampant. After five years of investment there's now more than a hundred of them. On a still evening the gentle scent wafts into the house. Roses and Ceanothus seem to love the thick clay soil that The Rickety Old Farmhouse is built on. Everything else seems to wither. This makes the choice of what to plant straightforward.
Sophie , for some reason best known only to her, avoids the sun by sleeping under the car. Bob comes indoors.
And so another lazy almost summer day comes to an end in deepest, deepest France profonde.
At the end of the VE Day service at Westminster Abbey the bells are 'fired' . Instead of peeling they all strike at the same time. A procedure that is more complex than it sounds due to the length of ropes and the duration of the chime. The sound quite remarkable - not least for the fact that this is the first time I've ever heard it. 'Firing' is presumably only used for very special occasions.
The weather this year has been 'changeable'. Today, however, is bright and sunny. While I bring the car up from the barn Bob suns himself at the front door. He and his sister are at that wonderful stage of a dogs life where mischief, health and routine all blend happily together.
The sign asking people not to sit on the war memorial steps has changed. It has now been printed up on A4 paper and attached by drawing pins to a piece of hardboard. The Hungarian stonemasons ignore it. They have not only been sitting on the war memorial but also playing football on the grass around it. Someone is not amused.
The final rugby match of the season. Where has the year gone ? This afternoon Bob and master will head off to the local stadium while Sophie helps 'The Font' learn Chinese. Bob may , or may not, be allowed a piece of hot dog.
Here's an interesting article about Goldens : http://www.realclearscience.com/articles/2015/05/08/why_does_cancer_plague_golden_retrievers_109216.html
'The Font ' goes to London to see the thumb surgeon. This is of course the day the fitters arrive, unannounced, to finish off the upstairs kitchen. The breakfast counter is wired up for power and WiFi and the lights are installed.
It's only after the florid man in red trousers has gone that I notice there's a problem. All the lights have been hung on 2 metre cords. What no one has allowed for is the slope in The Rickety Old Farmhouse ceiling. It's 6 centimetres higher on one side than the other. As a result each of the the lights hangs 2 centimetres lower than its neighbour. An unimportant but irritating thing. Angus would like to think this is a design feature.
While Sophie naps Bob and Angus go to look at the newly tarmacked road that leads around the village and up to the chateau. There's a band of still wet tar on either side of the gravel that Bob finds irresistible. He also tries leap into the village pond in pursuit of the frogs who are sunbathing on the Water Lily leaves. He is put on his lead.
There is a commotion outside on the village green. The mayor, resplendent in a pair of navy blue dungarees and his red tartan pork pie hat, is on top of a pair of step ladders fixing flags to the war memorial. His wife is 'helping' him. Her hearing aid is playing up again and she's shouting out at the top of her voice '' The shield's not straight ". He shouts back '' Yes it is ". This repartee goes on for some time. The shield remains at a jaunty angle.
After the mayor and his wife have gone I notice that a new sign has been attached to a wooden post at the back of the war memorial " Please do not sit on the steps ".
The Old Farmer still hasn't got his visa for Belarus. The trailer is packed and ready on the driveway outside his front door. Three wooden barrels of varying sizes are laid out on top of it. '' Cherry brandy " he says by way of explanation.
It's hot today. The pilgrims few and far between. Maybe half a dozen of them in total. Bob sits impatiently in the courtyard waiting for the sound of boots. When he hears them approaching he leaps onto his stump seat and lets out a most enormous WOOF. This is the cue for Sophie to do her diva routine. Such pilgrims as there are seem uninitimidated.
In the evening the Hungarian stonemasons cook sausages and sing. They then sit on the war memorial steps chatting away to distant loved ones on their mobile phones. The new sign clearly mean nothing to them.
Just one of those happy days with dogs when nothing happens. A fact that may be unexciting but is worth recording in its on right.
The Hungarian stonemasons are up early power washing the concrete where they'd cooked dinner. The iron tripod has been moved to one side while the cooking pot is rinsed in the swimming pool. All the Hungarians have walrus moustaches. For the second night in a row Bob and Sophie were tormented by the scent of of roasting sausage ( and lots of garlic ). After dinner the stonemasons brought out their mobile phones and sit on the steps of the war memorial. Loud and lengthy conversations could be heard until well after midnight.
The billionaires must be planning to spend the summer here. Mid afternoon a fleet of trucks arrive to relay the tarmac on the road that leads to the chateau gates. There's grit and tarmac left over so the car park in front of the town hall is also 'spruced up'. Is it cynical to wonder if we'd get such good treatment ?
As if this activity wasn't enough the grass cutters show up to trim the verges.
Bob and Sophie look on in stunned silence. Bob wears his ' this is busier than Piccadilly Circus ' look.
The cat that pees in the woodshed has returned. Bob and Sophie head out of the front door at high speed. There's not even time for a whoop of delight. Cat chasing is serious business.
It goes without saying that the cat has taken one look at the ferocious duo and headed off across the fields. The PONs are oblivious to its departure. They spend the next twenty minutes looking - in vain.
Down to the strawberry farm. We're the first visitors. The van hasn't even set off for the market in Agen . We take three punnets. '' Pay me tomorrow " says the farmer, keen to get on his way. Neither Bob nor Sophie care for strawberries so they find this part of their daily routine somewhat tedious. The itinerant Portuguese strawberry pickers greet them by name. Bobs tail wags. Sophie ignores them. She wants to get down to the cafe under the arcades and her illicit half croissant.
The valley carpeted in blue. Field after field of flax. The staple of linseed oil and the local linen weavers. Mundane but beautiful.
The German billionaires have imported some Hungarian stone masons to restore the ramparts. They don't speak a word of French. At night they sit outside the chateau gatehouse looking forlorn . Their evening meal is cooked on a metal tripod which supports a black iron pan over an open fire. A somewhat medieval touch. They sing strangely maudlin songs. The garlic laden smell of sausage and the sound of Ugric chanting keeps the PON's awake. Brother and sister have to be encouraged indoors to bed. What the villagers make of this exotic addition is unknown.
A morning spent going to the supermarket ( the early temperatures still cool enough to venture out in the car ) , then onto the cafe under the arcades to share an illicit half croissant ( en route barking at the invisible large white dog on the balcony above the opticians ) before returning home to spend an hour charging round the garden.
In the afternoon the garden umbrellas are brought out of storage. No sooner have they been put up than a strong umbrella shredding wind springs up . Bob is very interested in what's going on. He christens each umbrella stand. Some are christened three times, others twice and those on the terrace once. There is presumably some canine rationale behind this. He wears his serious face.
The Old Farmer has bought a trailer. One of those two wheel, ex-Army surplus trailers with a canvas cover. He informs me that he can fill it with food for his journey to Belarus to tend his fathers grave. '' I'll fill it with vodka for the return journey " he adds.
Sophie barks at passing pilgrims. They laugh. Thankfully, she knows that when everything gets too much she can hold onto her big brothers paw and have a nap. He can be savaged later.
It's actually day 756 for Bob and Sophie. How I wish we'd bought this door mat.
Bob rushes into the office to find me. He's wearing his ' you've got to come with me now ! ' face. To be doubly sure I understand he paws my right foot, twice. Outside on the courtyard gravel one of the fat young owls. A strangely beautiful yet ungainly thing. Eyes as big as its face. It must have fallen out of the tree during the night and barely moves when it's picked up. Usually a sign that it's days are numbered. We, dog and master, carefully put it in the long grass under the hole in the tree where the noisy owl family are nesting.
By mid-morning it's gone. Foxes ? Improbable during the day. We're hoping it rested, gathered its strength and managed to flutter back to safety. Could the mother have had the strength to pick it up and carry it in her talons ?
A hot humid day. Rather like South Carolina. The linen curtains at the front door are brought out of storage and put up. This allows the PON's to rush in and out but keeps the flies and heat out.
A day for doing very little apart from barking at pilgrims ( the good weather has brought them out in droves ) , chasing butterflies ( inexpertly ) and generally staying in the shade to keep cool. Chicken curry for dinner and then bed at ten. A pretty good day for two young, healthy dogs. Their happiness is infectious.
We have a rental car that guzzles gas. In fact it guzzles gas so quickly you'd think it was single handedly trying to restore America's dependence on imported oil. Faced with a flashing fuel warning light we pull off the Interstate and head to a gas station. Open 24/7 it says brightly. 'The Font' notices that there's a Denny's next door. ' Oh, how wonderful. Let's have breakfast ' . Angus thinks we should drive on but is overruled.
Denny's in Siloam, Georgia is not a formal place. The other patrons ( all male ) are wearing baseball caps, have cut the sleeves off their plaid shirts and are sporting a variety of tattoos. Some have trousers that extend below the knee. All have facial hair. We, on the way to a lunch in Charleston, are rather more formally dressed. In fact we're much more formally dressed. This may explain the sudden halt in the conversation as we enter.
After breakfast we head off to the store to buy a guide book on Georgia. The lady behind the counter points to a dark corner and says ''All the books we got over there". The books turn out to be a varied collection of faux leather covered Study Bibles and an intriguing and much thumbed paperback entitled " Dealing with Satans mischief ".
The shop also sells a wide range of t-shirts and caps. These laud the advantages of gun ownership. ' Y'awl have a good day' says the lady behind the cash register who, now we're leaving, seems to have warmed to us.
Tomorrow, if the holiday muse remains, the story of Aiken South Carolina and the search for a mayonnaise free salad.
Perhaps we've spent too much time in deepest France profonde.
The angelic duo are full recovered from their ordeal. Both have segued back into their routine as if nothing untoward has happened. Their owners are taking rather longer than usual to readjust to life in deepest France profonde.
It's May 1st. A national holiday. Everything, including the 7 day a week store, is firmly closed. There's another national holiday next Friday. Then there's Ascension Day. France is pretty much boarded up for the month. Despite it being a holiday the builder shows up to let us know that he's planning to start work on the terrace on May 18th.
There's a family of owls nesting in the plane tree on the other side of the lane. Mother owl, father owl and no less than five unblinking baby owls. The baby owls are rather contentedly fat. 'The Font' suggests 'fledgling' might be a better description for them. If that's the case then Miss Sophie is maintaining a 'fledgling' like figure.
We pick up some strawberries from the farmers wife. We're taking three punnets a day. Another week or so and we'll move onto melons and then, in high summer, peaches.
We return from the farm to find Madame Bay and her friend Renee ( pronounced Re-knee ) sitting in the courtyard chatting away. Bob bolts indoors. A lily of the valley scented hug in Madame Bay copious decolletage something he has learnt to avoid. Renee's grand daughter has told her that Chicago is close to Canada and Canada is cold in November. The retired gendarmes committee have therefore decided to fly to Miami for their annual break. '' You can trust the weather there " says Madame Bay with a surprising degree of conviction. It's barely ten thirty but there are two glasses of pastis on the small table in front of them.
To the cheese lady. We buy some Salers and Chevres. Bob and Sophie sit patiently and get rewarded with a sliver of Brie. Bob kisses the cheese lady and gives her his plaintive '' I is an orphan dog wotz never been fed " look. He gets encouraged out of the market.
Sophie closely observes the preparation of lunch. No shyness when it comes to monitoring what goes on in the kitchen. Ever dutiful big brother takes up his position by the front door and tries to look intimidating. Or he would if his eyelids could remain open.
Sophie spends her afternoon and evening chasing butterflies. PONs do not employ stealth when they hunt. The butterflies are completely untroubled. Sophie finally gives up and joins her brother at the front door.
Difficult to say who's more jet lagged. Dogs or owners.
Here's an interesting clip from last nights French version of the X Factor showing you how to sing a song, charmingly, in English even if you don't speak a word of the language. Listen carefully to the diction : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ToXXeT2Whto . The young man won.
