Bob arrives in the kitchen ready for the day to start. It's clear from the sodden paws and matted muzzle that he's already been chasing squirrels.
Sophie looks presentable.
Autumn mist for the Remembrance Service. We're supposed to start at 11.00 but it's 11.15 by the time the mayor has shepherded the villagers into position. The Old Farmer is there, a row of medals strung proudly across his brown knitted cardigan.
The mayor, dapper in his funeral suit, reads out the message from the President of the Republic. I strain to catch a few words but fail. Then the list of the village dead is called, '' Mort pour la France " intoned after each name.The mayors grandfather and uncle the first names read out. The youngest villager lays a wreath on the memorial. A minutes silence ,then the little lady in the purple hat sings the Marseillaise slowly and plaintively.
An invitation is extended to the mayor and his wife to join us for a glass of champagne. '' We couldn't possibly. Oh well. Perhaps the one ". Madame Bay, the lady with the beehive hairdo, the woman with unexpected triplets, the man in the yellow day-glo jacket , the lady in the purple hat , the tiler, the deputy matron from the Old Folks home, the Old Farmer and a variety of others follow along.
Bob circulates amongst the crowd in the hope of finding sausages. He's disappointed.
So passes another year in deepest France profonde. This 'The Font' notes to our mutual surprise is the seventh ceremony we've attended. Where has the time gone ?
Mornings with PONs are rarely quiet. Today is no exception. Sophie makes it plain to Bob that a pre-breakfast game of 'savage my sister' is not on the cards.
The mayor shows up at the front gate. '' Can I borrow your ladder ? I have to put the flags on the war memorial ". Angus watches while the mayor clambers up and arranges the tricolore for the Armistice Day ceremony. The old linen flags have been replaced by very lustrous nylon ones. Try as he might the mayor can't get the shield to hang straight. It leans slightly to the left. Two chrysanthemum plants are placed on the plinth.
Sophie stands on her hind legs observing events from The Rickety Old Farmhouses front gate. She yelps with frustration that things are being done without her involvement.
The Very Old Farmers son has started to clear out the house and burn papers. This strikes us as being somewhat 'gauche' considering the Very Old Farmer is still in residence.
In an old family diary the surprising discovery that on November 11th 1918 the crowds in George Street, Edinburgh marked the Armistice by singing the doxology. A spontaneous response to the kirk bells signalling the end of carnage. As the streets were filled with kilted Canadian, New Zealand and Scottish troops I'd assumed that the 11th hour would have been met with a riot of debauchery. Interesting that everyone knew the words. What would people sing today ? Difficult to find the doxology on You Tube but here's a very descanty Benjamin Britten arrangement - a snippet kicks in at the 4.34 mark : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34uo7bO3rQ4
It's been warm enough for shirt sleeves on our pre-breakfast walk. This morning a definite change. Clouds in the sky and a chill hint of winter in the air. Bob is up and about early. He's frustrated that his master is rummaging in the back of the car looking for a jacket. Sophie takes a little longer to surface. She's been sleeping on her right side and emerges with a fashionably lopsided look.
Bourbon makes an unexpected appearance in the aisles of the little supermarket. A Mint Julep , the advertising informs us, is the ancestor of the Mojito and an emblematic drink of the United States. What the local farmers will make of 'Bourbon Week' remains to be seen.
In the glazed lobby of the shopping centre we come across this little fellow.
Distraught at being left alone while his mistress shops he slumps ever lower. Polished stone floors do nothing for canine equilibrium. To show his unhappiness he howls. Not a Wolf like howl but a quiet blowing out of air. A noise not unlike Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs. This is at once both sad and highly amusing in the way that only dogs can be.
There are two sorts of people. Those who stop and chat to the dog and those who rush by oblivious. An unscientific observation would point to a 40-60 split.
Loic, the bifocaled gardener, blows leaves into piles. The PONs follow on behind. Loic seems oblivious to the chaos they're creating.
Sophie is of the view that a girl should be able to lie in the sun and relax after a bout of strenuous leaf rearranging.
However, in the real world there's the constant danger of being savaged by an oaf of a brother.
There again, what's the point of worrying about the inevitable ?
Sophie is up early to alert us to the fact that the farmer is back and has brought an even larger tractor with him. He parks the machine on the speed bump and tinkers with the plough attachment. He whistles as he does so. There is nothing quite like whistling to get a PON into high alert mode. Apart, that is, from banging a metal attachment with a spanner. This works just as well.The village wakes.
Sophie barks. Bob looks ferocious. Or as ferocious as he can look with Furry Fox in his mouth.
There is time for just a quick game of tug of war before we head into town.
Despite it being November two early rising American tourists can be seen in the market square. They are wearing identical white leather hats.They stand in the middle of the road, oblivious to the traffic, then stride purposefully off.
The beggar outside the market holds the door open for us. He tickles Bobs chin. Sophie avoids him. 'The Font' gives the young man a Euro coin. He has two friendly and well cared for dogs that he clearly loves and who love him back. Angus is always sniffy about giving to beggars. 'The Font' takes a ' who are we to judge ? ' approach.
Sophie, exhausted by such an exciting start to her day, falls inelegantly asleep in the sun.
So begins another Sunday in deepest, deepest France profonde. Events too unimportant for a diary but too important to go completely unrecorded.
The farmer is ploughing the field on the other side of the lane. The family princess watches the action with proprietorial interest. Being early she feels the need to bark - frequently. How the villagers must love having dog owners in their midst.
A walk down by the river is a good way of restoring dog and owners karma. November and it's still 70 degrees.
The baker doesn't seem to be aware that the Rugby World Cup is over. Today, in a 'better late than never' approach, he unveils a range of cakes named after countries competing in the competition. They are priced at a ten cent premium to his 'standard' range.
Angus points out that there is no Scottish cake.
The baker pauses for a moment then suggests I buy a blue, white and red French cake and remove the little red sugar rugby ball from its crown. Let it not be said the French are totally lacking in humour.
Bob and Sophie get some crumbs from a 'Sacristan' that has had an accident somewhere between the oven and the counter. The thump-thump of tails against the bakers door is an indication that they are more than happy.
Home for a hectic day of 'Throw the Furry Fox' and ' Let's bark at the farmers tractor '.
The children are back at school and the village is back into its quiet routine. The lady with the six year old, the four year old and the 'unexpected' triplets comes racing along the lane in her battered old Renault. She's late, as she is every day, getting her brood to school. The PONs are told to stand well back. She waves. She also seems to be doing up the six year olds shirt while simultaneously brushing the four year olds hair. The Renault doesn't progress along the lane in a straight line; it seems to weave. The inherent problem of only having two hands when half a dozen would be the ideal number. Angus wonders what breakfast time in a house with 'unexpected' triplets must be like.
We head off to the bakers. Just as I'm about to close the tailgate Bob lets out the most almighty howl.
He then stops and smiles. '' Sorry about that. Thought I saw a squirrel ".
He looks very proud of his guarding skills.
The tree surgeons arrive ( two months late ) to trim the branches damaged in the August 'storm of the century'.
A howling Sophie hurtles out of the front door to let them know she's on their case.
Bob takes a more relaxed approach to the visitors.
He picks up Furry Fox ......
..... observes the intruders and their spawn of Satan power saw ....
..... and then barks at them from behind the safety of a lime tree.
It has to be said that barking with a Furry Fox in your mouth is not an intimidating canine characteristic.
Sophie stands yapping by the tree mens truck, uncowed by the evil power saw that so alarms her brother. In a human incarnation Sophie would be the sort of high living girl who'd be 'known to the police'.
So starts a day in deepest France profonde with two irrepressibly happy family dogs.
There's a gale blowing from the south. Gusts of up to 100 km/h. Bob heads out of the front door only to be met by a wall of wind. His ears fly up over the top of his head. He gives me his ' Blimey ! It's blowy ' look.
We think its just another windy day. Bob knows differently. He settles down, head out of the door, rump safely inside, nose in the air. This is a wind that's a had long journey from the Sahara. He drinks in the scents of Marrakesh, Mediterranean fishing boats, Spanish orange groves and the dockside in Marseilles. I could swear he's smiling.
And humans think they're the clever ones ?
For Sophie a brief, end of the day, moment of zen like calm with a furry friend ...
... before being pounced on by a fox stealing, oaf, of a brother .
What's a girl got to do to get some peace and quiet ?
After our morning constitutional to the bakers we stop off at the supermarket. Goats milk Brie and ...
Japanese Green Tea Desserts catch our eye.
Over lunch Angus decides they are both an acquired taste.
Despite the strong wind that's blowing Sophie is having a reasonable hair day.
Bob is displaying (what he considers to be) his matinee idol good looks. Others might call the look dishevelled.
We have another hedgehog night. Sophie helps matters along by screaming. Not just any scream but a rattle the tea cups 'diva' scream. Bob pierces his gums but maintains a masculine silence. A male PON with pierced gums requires a lot of TLC. After a lengthy mano a mano, a tickle and a rice cake he falls asleep. His bravery in guarding the house against hedgehogs is recognized.
Sophie still hasn't got the hang of the yogurt pot. She parades around with the empty carton willing it to refill itself. When that fails she sits in front of me with a look on her face that says " You fill it ! ".
We leave the PONs at home and head off to the little market town. Just as well they've been left behind. A man walking his Labrador, off the lead, has a fight with a man in a black track suit walking his Maltese on a lead. The Maltese owner shouts at the Labrador then kicks it. The Labradors owner is unhappy. A conversation along the lines of " You got a problem mate ? " 'You're dead right I've got a problem ! ' ensues and before you know it they're wrestling on the ground. People stop what they're doing and stare. Children scream. The two men have to be physically separated. The only ones unperturbed by this turn of events are the two dogs.
Back home in the village the sun shines, beer kegs are delivered to the Salle des Fetes for the rugby final and Bob and Sophie sit at the fence and howl at deer in the field below.
Just another day with happy dogs. Too unremarkable for a diary but too important to go completely unrecorded.
