The mayor arrives to open the town hall. By eight, the time voting is due to start, a dozen farmers and their tractors are already waiting. Bob eyes them warily from his stump seat.
One of those clear mornings when the ground is covered with the lightest layer of mist. By the time we've made it down the hill to the little stream the mist has burnt off. The PONs love this weather. Whether their enjoyment is down to the winter chill or the abundance of mud is unknown. Perhaps it's both ?
In the market hall they're unveiling the Christmas creche. The local dance troupe ' The Artichoke Troubadors' has come along to provide some folkloric colour. They twirl and skip and thrum for a full half an hour.
The villagers look on. Interestingly, none of them volunteer to join in the folkloric twirling when invited to do so.
In the church they've renovated the wall painting behind the plaster statue of the Lady of Lourdes. A swarm of what appear to be absent minded cherubs surround her. With their garlands of lillys and swags of roses they seem just a shade too frisky to be wholly pious.
Bob heads off for a power walk with 'The Font'. A power walk round the lake is that special moment when he can act as family guardian, chase ducks and escape his sister. In human terms this is known as bliss.
Sophie heads off with her owner to the little market town. They settle at a table outside the cafe on the market square. Angus reads Le Figaro. From time to time he shares a snippet of information with the princess. Non-dog owning clientele look at him warily. Sophie gets a bowl of water but sadly no half croissant.
The fancy bakers wife is in a recognizably post-natal mood. She asks if we've had snow. This is a surprising question as its sunny, cloudless and a spring like 14 degrees outside.
Sophie has a diva moment. She emits her concrete shredding yelp. She is given some crumbs of choux pastry. Some dogs get rewarded for being good. Sophie is a dog that gets bribed to be quiet.
We wander down the hill in the afternoon sunshine. The Very Old Farmer can be seen sitting on an ancient orange tractor. He lolls from side to side as he ploughs. '' Bonjour M'Ongoose. Lovely day " he says when I ask if I can be of any help. How he a) managed to propel himself across the village from his house to his vegetable patch b) managed to get out of his wheelchair into the tractors driving seat and c) manages to steer the tractor as he has no feeling in his arms below the elbows - are mysteries. It is however the day off for the regular district nurse.
Among the village octogenarians and nonagenarians the spark of life burns brightly. Very brightly indeed. In its own way a small Christmas miracle. 'The Font' observes that the ordinariness of life in a small French village is bizarre.
Friday was great. Today, if the PONs enthusiasm is anything to go by, is shaping up to be even better.
Bob prepares for the morning walk by picking up Furry Fox. Sophie wonders why she can't have it. The morning walk is delayed until this matter of canine etiquette is resolved.
Sometimes when Bob uses his nose to rearrange the Solar System magnets on the dishwasher door he accidentally knocks off a small chip of paint . When the Bosch service engineer asks why there's damage to the dishwashers paintwork he gets ignored. There are some things that can't be explained to a non-dog person.
If only Bob had this to play with : http://www.theatlantic.com/video/index/417309/our-place-in-the-universe/
Another cloudless morning. Sophie exhausts herself chasing invisible things in the drainage ditches and opts for an extended post walk nap. Bob guards.
Have the fruit and vegetable sections at the supermarket suddenly become more colourful ?
Angus has to ask 'The Font' what the red beans are.
Even the lettuces look festive.
The Old Farmer has put up two new strings of lights. A swathe ( blue and yellow ) now runs from the cottage across his courtyard to the garage. A second set ( red and orange ) have been added to the garage gutters. For good measure a security light has also been added to the garage door. The Rickety Old Farmhouse must look very staid when compared with this vision of supercharged cheerfulness.
The roofers have finished work on the Salle des Fetes. Voting in the second round of the regional elections can take place, in the dry, on Sunday. The village has always voted Socialist. Last Sunday 61 of the 67 souls on the electoral register voted in the first round. 32 voted for the extreme right Front Nationale.
Our builders finish. They don't clear up afterwards. What a surprise. Cement dust and PONs. Wonderful.
The builders are still here. They said they'd be finished by Tuesday. They now say they'll be finished by close of business today. '' Don't you worry M'Ongoose. Just a few odds and ends to finish off ". Why do I not feel convinced?
Across the road another group of builders are re-roofing the Salle des Fetes. It's not as if the Salle des Fetes needed re-roofing but there is money in the village kitty that has either to be spent or returned to the government before the start of the New Year. The next round of voting in the regional elections is on Sunday. Let's hope the mayor has more luck with getting the work done on time than we do.
The PONs find having two sets of builders in the village intriguing. Both sets of workmen are closely supervised. The morose lads are tempted into a game of 'Throw the Furry Fox'. The roofers on the Salle des Fetes aren't.
Not that the PONs are bothered. There are all sorts of wonderful things in the hedgerows. The hibernatory habits of squirrels, moles and hedgehogs are all over the place this year due to the unseasonably warm weather
Wednesday is the day the chocolatier makes his weekly batch of seriously serious chocolates. His wife and daughter are there to help. They show me how they make 'hay' scented chocolate. They all talk quickly and at once so Angus becomes rather confused as to whether the hay is distilled into an essence and added to the chocolate or is used to smoke the chocolate.
If that wasn't confusing enough it seems there are various types of hay. Carrier bags are brought out and Mrs Chocolate maker goes into raptures over the different scents and tones.
Bob watches all this and thinks it unfair that chocolate is poisonous to dogs.
Sophie has taken to sleeping on her back. This might explain this mornings 'flat head' look.
The workmen are busy putting up walls. Two of the morose lads leave their sandwiches in a bag on a table on the terrace. This proves to be a mistake. The 'disappearance' of the sandwiches goes unnoticed until lunch time. 'The Font' makes replacement cheese and ham baguettes. Sophie gives us her 'I cannot tell a lie. It was my brother ' look. The crumbs on her chin tell a different story.
There is wholewheat spaghetti for dinner. Sophie's new anti-gulp bowl slows her down - infinitesimally. Bob, being a gourmand, slowly eats his spaghetti, strand by strand. This display of prudence drives his sister insane.
While we've been away The Old Farmer has added a string of red and pink flashing lights to the windows and doors around his terrace . This is a colour combination one doesn't often see. Together with all the other lights around the gutters and along the railings his little cottage now displays a festive glow not unlike a nuclear reactor in meltdown.
So passes another day of high chicness in deepest, deepest France profonde.
No doubting the PONs are glad to leave the kennels. They fly like rocket dogs into the back of the car. Bobs leap to safety starts at least three metres from the tailgate.
Both are in fine form. Bob gives me his '' you cannot believe what happened to me " look.
Sophie's hair is no more disheveled than it is on any Monday morning.
Bob spends the first three hours of freedom joined to my ankles. He won't let me out of his sight. Sophie stays in the kitchen glued to 'The Fonts' feet.
After lunch they bark at the builders then spend an hour or two overseeing the installation of plaster board walls.
Satisfied that everything is as it should be they fall into a deep deep sleep. They wake for dinner, find a hedgehog in the garden, savage each other, then fall back asleep.
Normal service has been resumed.
The boutique hotel chosen by 'The Font' is eerily quiet. Early December is not peak tourism season in provincial England. The receptionist, who spends most of her time talking to the two Australian barmen, seems surprised to see us. ' We're very busy in summer' she says by way of welcome.
The bedroom boasts an eclectic mix of furniture. This includes a three poster bed ( it had been a four poster but one of the posts has had a mishap and is now propped up against a wall ), a beige silk sofa that appears to have been inexpertly cleaned and an interesting collection of Indian themed tables with almost matching lamps.
Over dinner Angus chooses a bottle of wine from a long and undistinguished list. '' Good choice Mate !" says one of the young Australian barmen. His enthusiastic tone suggests I've scored seven out of ten in a general knowledge quiz. He returns with a bottle and pours two glasses. We are not invited to try it. 'The Font' is encouraged into the Christmas spirit with an admonition to 'Get that down you'. Modern man has clearly not reached Woomera.
For breakfast the next morning 'The Font' orders porridge and wonders if there is some fresh fruit to go with it. The Lithuanian waitress ponders this request. She consults with a colleague then disappears into the kitchen. Finally, she returns and announces " Jesus has gone to buy you a banana !". Jesus, it transpires, is the Spanish commi-chef. 'It's not every day that someone says that to you ' observes 'The Font' brightly.
We buy an anti-gulp bowl for Sophie.
Some goats milk chocolate for Angus.
The ducks on the High Street have a rather exotic companion.
Brussel Sprouts are now sold enriched with Selenium. What will they think of next ?
There are strong winds so our flight is delayed. Bob and Sophie will be picked up from the kennels this morning.
A message on the answer machine from the builders to say they will be coming to finish off 'the work'. Neither of us can imagine what this might be.
So starts a new week in deepest, deepest France profonde.
We're off to the English countryside for three nights. A boutique hotel which resolutely refuses to answer the phone, respond to e-mails or send out confirmations. The reservation was made, and paid for, on-line. 'The Font' wonders what could possibly go wrong.
While 'The Font' packs Bob and Sophie get a thirty minute walk across the fields.
Then it's into the back of the car and off to the kennels. Both of them know 'something's up'. Bob gives me his 'I'm disappointed' look. Sophie wears her ' and I thought you loved me ' face. You can never fool a PON. Angus tells them they'll have a wonderful time.
Thankfully, the angelic duo are so busy saying hello to the other dogs they don't notice us leave.
Normal service will be resumed on Sunday.
When we arrived at The Rickety Old Farmhouse the library was a dirt floored space used for storing tractors. Concrete was poured, walls plastered, power installed and book cases built. The floor was supposed to be tiled but the joiner finished before the tiler started. It then proved to be difficult to lay tiles around the bookcases. Instead the floor is painted with tough Farrow and Ball paint impervious to just about anything. Anything that is apart from one of Sophie's ' I have to dig to Australia' moments. Her scratching tears it up. Last night was a let me get to Australia night.
Today Angus starts repainting the floor. The PONs, although keen to become involved, are banished. Wet paint and paws are not a calming combination. A parcel is delivered. '' You've got something from America " says the post lady. 'The Font' opens it and finds a children's book.
While Angus paints 'The Font' starts to read aloud. Voices are used to differentiate between characters. '' What in heavens name was that supposed to be ? " I ask. 'An elephant of course '. Lucky the villagers can't see or hear us. Two supposed grown ups roaring with laughter. The dogs master with a paint brush in one hand and a glass of Margaux in the other.
A PON owner is bound to be enthralled by a Christmas tale about a Polish Lowland Sheepdog . However, if you want to laugh or if you want to make others laugh or if you love dogs or know someone who does then this is a book for you. If it was being reviewed in the New York Review of Books people would comment on its brio and narrative skill and enormous verve. As it's being talked about here lets just say it's sweet and kind and warm and witty and an antidote to cynicism and harshness. Oh, and did I say there's a PON in it ?
It can be ordered from a lady in Atlanta with a PON called Edward, here : http://www.pamelaterry.net/
Don't know what's going on here but Grandmas accordion playing and Nathans dancing are quite the thing.
Another beautiful morning. There are three deer on the village green. They hurry away before the PONs notice. A huge flock of starlings dart and weave through the heavily mistletoed oak copse. Jays everywhere. The emerald blue of their wings a hint of June in December. Sophie watches Bob leap across the ditch and onto the muddy field. She follows him. So we progress down the hill. A dog owner and two ditch leaping dogs intent on having fun.
A large motor coach stops outside the church and disgorges a group of pilgrims. They head off towards the Holy Well, led by a lady with stout shoes and a clip board. The chattering throng returns half an hour later to eat their sandwiches on the low wall that surrounds the Salle des Fetes. Bob and Sophie are intrigued by this activity. Or rather I should say they are intrigued by the pilgrims sandwiches. The pilgrims are only of secondary interest.
Bob sits guarding on his stump set for an hour after they've gone. Sophie gets bored quickly and heads off in search of moles. She never finds any but the deep holes in the lawn tells you she excavates in hope.
The sun sets. Darkness falls. Lights are switched on in The Rickety Old Farmhouse. On the other side of the lane The Old Farmers decorations burst into life. Pilots on night flights into Toulouse must look down and wonder.
