The fields are coated with a veneer of mist. Half an inch at most, thicker in the folds and valleys. Autumns first outlier. By the time we've made it along the ridge and out of the village the rising sun has burnt it away. Let off their leads Bob and Sophie hurtle across the fields. Sophie keeping pace with her brother. He runs in silence. She howls as she goes. The season of mists, mellow fruitfulness and enthusiastic PONs.
In the afternoon a storm brews up. The sand storm that's been sweeping across the Sahara fighting with the cool on the mountain peaks. By four the air is heavy with humidity. The frogs and cicadas love it. PONs and humans seek the cool of the house. Big brother sleeps under the hall desk. Sister under the sideboard.When life is a 24/7 fast lane adventure you're allowed the occasional nap. You're also allowed to snore.
Just one of those quiet days in deepest, deepest France profonde.
Not yet seven am. Sophie's boredom threshold has already been crossed. She's shredded a cushion. Todays pre-breakfast challenge. When presented with the enormity of her crime she reverts to looking innocent. The ' I was framed ' face. The fact she's found lying in the midst of a pile of feathers and foam purely coincidental.
In the local town the end of summer fair. There is a huge pavilion given over to motor homes. There are also lots and lots of stalls displaying security doors, double glazing, reconstituted stone driveways, state of the art sewage systems and solar panels. Angus talks to two sewage men.
Outside, a group of young men relentlessly polish three garishly painted Ford Mustangs. They work for a company called Auto Exotique. The question of who would buy a Ford Mustang in rural France profonde remains unanswered. Auto Exotique also has one of those super stretched Lincoln Town Cars . The young men try, unsuccessfully, to tempt local lovelies into the back with the romantic phrase ' Would you like a turn round the block love ? '. The heirs of Racine and Moliere.
We have a cup of liquid rust at the cafe and then head home.
In the absence of passing pilgrims Bob practices frightening facial gestures and barks at the occasional tractor.
Sophie chases red squirrels and radiates irrepressible happiness.
Another perfect morning. Cool enough to charge down through the fields to the stream without being bothered by humidity. Bob chases egrets, Sophie snuffles in hedges. Bobs tail continues to wave as if its got a mind of its own.
There is an end of summer shirt sale in the shopping mall. The old lines being disposed of at 70% off. A chance to pick up some blue striped cotton shirts. The young lady behind the counter wonders if I'd like to try the shirts on. Angus declines this kind offer. Shopping is an experience to get over and done with as quickly as possible. The store, which specializes in rugby wear, does size XXXXXL. How big must some of these people be ?
When we get home 'The Font' helpfully observes that the shirts have got an embroidered logo on the back. This is a surprise. Angus has never had clothing with a logo. He doesn't intend to start now. " Perhaps you can wear them in America ? ". Time to check the 'returns' policy.
Furry Fox, who has been missing for three weeks,( buried in the lavender beds with only a solitary limb protruding ), has been rediscovered. Cheer gives way to delight which gives way to glee. Bob flies round the garden.
Bobs Arcadian moment is not shared by Sophie . Little sister is not allowed anywhere near Furry Fox.
Sophie has a face that reflects her moods. Today it's clear that she is unhappy with her oaf of a brother. She sports her martyred sister look.
Yogurt and a rice cake finally restore her inner karma. Bob doesn't do inner karma. He just enjoys himself.
The Square in the little market town is still set up for tourists. Why all the tables and umbrellas are put out when the visitors and second home owners have headed back to Paris remains a mystery. It will stay like this for another two weeks.
Bob, Sophie and their master watch a middle aged man buy a coffee and walk with it to one of the deck chairs in the middle of the Square. Settling in deck chairs can be a tricky experience at the best of times. Doubly so with a cup of coffee in one hand. The man suddenly slumps down into the deck chair. So does his coffee.
Back at The Rickety Old Farmhouse Madame Bay is continuing to interview potential cleaning ladies. '' Too flighty " - her take on one applicant. The applicant was fifty seven and to anyone other than Madame Bay would appear eminently sensible.
The PONs continue to radiate happiness. They have their fringes trimmed. Experience has taught us that PONs that can see what's coming towards them are friendly PONs. Sophie, we think, is slightly cross eyed.
In the afternoon Angus finishes off an interesting little book by a man who worked as a speechwriter for the former governor of South Carolina. A gentlemanly hatchet job. One of those books that's really a long essay. To say it's been padded out to make it book length is perhaps a tad too unkind. Entertaining and at times amusing. The authors name alone worth the price of entry.
One of those perfect mornings. Fresh but not too fresh.The early sun hinting at warmth to come. Bob and Sophie start their day with a charge into the orchard in search of squirrels. Sophie gives full voice to her excitement.
At the cheese monger they have Reblochon de Chevre. Not the Reblochon made with cows milk but with goats milk. I try some with the morning croissant. Rubbery, the word that springs to mind. Bob and Sophie love it.
While I clean the pool the PONs lend moral encouragement.
Bob uses his nose to rearrange the solar system on the dishwasher. Saturn is licked then lightly chewed before being dropped on the floor.
The PONs already know - today is going to be the best day ever.
The year is turning its pages more quickly now. The smell of autumn in the air. A jacket needed on the morning walk. Today, the little road that runs across the fields down to the valley shrouded in shadows. The advent of cool weather means the PONs get a full hour of egret chasing and hedge thrashing before it's time to get back in the car.
We head off to the local McDonalds. One place where you can be sure the coffee doesn't taste like liquid rust. Why are the Italians so uniformly good at making coffee and the French so bad ? 'Shiny Bacon' makes a reappearance on the 'American staples' menu. There was a time when Angus would have welcomed and been able to digest a bacon burger at eight in the morning. Sadly, only the first of those applies these days.
Sophie returns home looking as if she's been dragged through a hedge backwards - twice.
Bob is having a troublesome quiff day.
It's the time of the year when the local farmers show their 'country' skills and set up scarecrows on the village greens. One of those local traditions that is borderline creepy. Eagle eyed bloggers will see that the ankles of each of these new scarecrow arrivals has been 'de-threated' by a healthy sprinkling of Eau de Bob.
A PON boys work is never done.
And here, to prove you can find anything on the internet, is a review of a Shiny Bacon burger. Scores 6/20. Perhaps I didn't miss much after all. http://www.myburger.fr/chronique-1325-double-shiny-bacon-mcdonald-s-avis-test.html
Chaos. You'd wonder if this was the first time the PONs had ever been harnessed up and told to get in the back of the car. Today, Bob is on a different planet. Planet Deaf.
Sophie is in one of her ' what is it you want ? ' moods.
Finally, having chased some squirrels, they settle down.
The array of pastries in the bakers is decidedly sparse. Dogs and owner are unimpressed.
On our morning walk Sophie finds a dead vole. She is told to drop it. She gulps it down. Sophie is also spending the day on Planet Deaf.
It's going to be one of those Saturdays.
Outside the church a tree has fallen and unearthed a pile of pottery and bones. The official archaeologists arrive in a little white van. Bob and Sophie are intrigued. '' They could be Roman " says a middle aged man wearing a green crimplene short sleeved shirt with three plastic pens in his breast pocket. He carries a clipboard. 'That recent ? ' says Angus by way of light hearted banter. ' Oh no !' says crimplene man. '' If they'd been buried recently we'd have to call the gendarmes ". Never try small talk in a foreign language.
Back at The Rickety Old Farmhouse ' The Font' clears away the buckets from the upstairs hall. Bob thinks the buckets were a great addition to the household decor. It takes a particular sort of skill to charge between them at high speed and not send the contents flying. He has it. Sophie don't.
His sister continues to exude happiness and health. As I've noted before if she was a human with this amount of vitality we'd have the suspicion she was 'on' something. The sort of girl that would work in a tattoo parlor by day, spend her weekends singing in a rock band , drink beer from the bottle and have a Harley driving Marine boyfriend called 'Rooster'.
A sign for ' The Aborigine Dream' appears on the notice board in the supermarket. A theme park of marsupials in deepest France profonde. Wonders never cease.
The dogs have never been given the option of climbing on the furniture. As a result they never have.
This morning 'The Font ' is surprised to find the female PON standing on the sideboard in the downstairs hallway. She's happily finishing off a pack of rice cakes that had been carefully put out of her reach.
From the scratch marks we deduce that the little angel has climbed on a chair then clambered from the chair onto the sideboard. A 'diva' moment follows when Sophie recognizes how high off the ground she is.
'The Font' will call a French polisher later this morning.
Sophie is told off. She feigns complete innocence. That well rehearsed ' I cannot tell a lie; it was my brother ' look.
We go to the supermarket. Angus wants to buy a case of this unusually named wine. He thinks it would be a sure fire ice breaker. 'The Font' mutters something about adolescent humour.
Daylight enables us to see what damage the storm caused. The French teacher has had an oak tree fall on her house. As we pass on our morning walk the local fire brigade are hard at work throwing a plastic sheet over what's left of her roof. Due to blocked roads and wind damage the schools which were due to open on Tuesday won't start until Thursday. Beyond the crossroads the school secretary's new Renault has been squashed by a wayward acacia. Down by the river the oaks, heavy with acorns , seem to have suffered most. Heartbreaking to see so many of these two hundred year old giants felled.
Our farm lad was fortunate to escape from his run in with a tree unscathed. Two others, from neighbouring villages, weren't so lucky
A quick check of the garden. The lawn strewn with branches, a few broken umbrellas, a smashed wooden chair. Inside, the water seeping through the ceiling has slowed to a gentle trickle. The builder promises to come and repair the roof tiles ' as soon as I can '. When pressed he adds '' probably this week but I can't guarantee it ". 50,000 folks to the west remain without power. We count our blessings.
By eight the first of the council clean up teams are hard at work cutting up branches that have fallen onto the little lane. Bob monitors their progress from his stump seat.
Sophie sits amidst the detritus of the previous nights storm exuding happiness. Mud, an irritated brother and a demonic tweeting bird. What more could a girl ask for ?
The PON duo are waiting for me in the garden. Bob exudes an air of well mannered impatience.
Outside the Post Office two pilgrim dogs. They look at Bob and Sophie as if to say '' You two don't know what you're missing ". Sophie wonders if their backpacks contain food. She is hurried along before there is a 'diva' moment.
Overnight a huge mountain storm. Lightning to the right of us, lightning to the left. The temperatures plummet. A gust of wind rips tiles off the roof. Torrential rain pours through . 'The Font' assembles buckets to collect the water. Outside a tree has fallen and blocked the road. A seventeen year old farm boy returning home in the wee hours drives into it. No one is hurt but his ten year old Opel Corsa is rather the worse for wear. We call the mayor who arrives at The Rickety Old Farmhouse in dressing gown, wellington boots and a fur trappers hat . He has a length of cable in the back of his little Renault. The tree is dragged into the middle of the village green. The mayor goes home to bed.
Bob is completely oblivious to the wind and the lightning. He finds the unexpected activity great fun. That ' we should do this every morning ' attitude to life. Sophie is also oblivious to the weather. She is much more concerned about the presence of the farm boy in the kitchen. Another serial killer ? The farm boy - shaken but not stirred- is given a cup of coffee and then driven home.
Today I'll try to find a builder to repair the roof. The benches and umbrellas have already been pulled out of the swimming pool.
PS. At 7:10 this morning aforementioned farm lad can be seen standing on the village green , with two mates, looking at the damage to his prize Opel Corsa. '' Not too bad " he says cheerily. Angus looks at the crumpled front wing and wonders how he could possibly have arrived at this judgement. The optimism, or is it blindness, of youth.
