Bob and Angus head down to Toulouse. At this chilly time of the morning the pavement cafes in the centre of town are almost empty. In the evening they're packed solid with students and locals. We find a seat under a ferocious gas heater. Bob is brought a bowl of water. He shares the 'curvy' ends from my croissant.
Toulouse is a city of fountains. This small delicate one by the GANT store built in the shape of a Roman monument. A tomb perhaps ? Is the top a replica or the original ? No signs to explain its purpose or why its located where it is. Perhaps the basin it stands on is Roman ? Bob is unimpressed.
A rather stylish hour glass in a shop window. A whimsical Christmas gift for 'The Font' or something so impractical it would be broken within a week ? We promise the shop lady we'll think about it.
Another square. Another fountain. Behind it a rather anonymous red brick building has been gentrified with white plaster statuary.
A Millefeuille cake attracts the dog owners attention. Carrying a cake while navigating a lively and highly inquisitive PON through busy city streets is asking for trouble. Perhaps we'll pick one up the next time.
Sophie is 'miffed' to discover her brother has been gallivanting in the city while she's been left at home watching the leaves fall. Less than two weeks to the next trip to the hospital. She is one feisty and very impatient lady.
A national holiday tomorrow. The mayor shows up to borrow the step ladder so that he can put out the flags on the war memorial. The swaying ( and now rather alarmingly tilting ) Jesus continues to be a matter of concern for the village council. None of the local builders has been able to remedy the slump. Money may need to be spent on a professional firm .
So passes another day in deepest,deepest France profonde.
Bob takes the news seriously.
His sister less so.
French breakfast radio wonders what's happened to the Anglo-Saxons.
All of the opinion polls were wrong. That alone is astounding.
The world might seem like a big and frightening place ....
.... but not if you've got a big brother on guard 24/7. The fact he's slightly drooly and his mouth is a bit lopsided is immaterial.
Whatever the future holds this blast from the past has never been more true :
A psychic Scottish goat foretells Americas Presidential election.
Overnight a storm front moves through the valley stripping the little lime tree on the village green of half its leaves. They've fallen and formed a near perfect circle on the grass round its base. Lit by the street light dog and owner notice this pleasing touch of symmetry. Dog rustles his way through the leaves.
The sky has brightened by the time we've done a tour of the boundaries and emerged back onto the lane . Horses, cows and donkeys all carefully PON appraised. At our approach nervous deer scurry into the thick woodland. Bob seems happy that all is well with the world. We startle a family of Bullfinches who fly away from their nest in the brambles by the crossroads - their agitated chirrups tell us that this is not a time that humans and their companions should be out and about.
In between showers Sophie is walked in the garden. The ground may be wet but it's soft and the leaves hold onto the tantalizing smells of night time visitors - voles, shrews and the soon to be hibernating field mice and hedgehogs. She walks twenty yards, sniffs, rests, then walks another twenty yards. The repaired back leg enjoying the exercise. The other leg strength less but soon to be put right. Before we head in for breakfast Sophie turns on her back, kicks her legs in the air and squeals with delight. You can take the girl out of the party but you can't take the party ...
The garden centre has a fresh delivery of Anduze pots. Angus has been meaning to buy some for the last three years. Each time he looks he's put off by the price. In a world where there is supposedly no inflation Anduze pots seem to be contra-indicator. Their price up 50% since I started looking.
Bob is prevented from 'christening' a collection of fibreglass Buddhas.
This has clearly been a bad year for Chrysanthemum sales. A week after All Saints Day and the greenhouses still overflowing with the things.
This morning they play this on Radio Nostalgie .
Bob, who used to sleep downstairs next to his sister, now sleeps upstairs . Here he is equidistant between Sophie and his owners. If Sophie squeaks in the night Bob rushes in to tell us. Every morning as I emerge Bob is there to greet me. We have a brief Mano a Mano chat. Every morning he then escorts me downstairs and waits until his sister is let out of her pen.
It pours with rain all day. Sophie is thankfully in a fixed routine when it comes to comfort breaks. This makes life much easier. A dog owners delight at this simple state of affairs is something non dog owners could never understand.
While Sophie is groomed and fussed over Bob and Angus head off to the greengrocers. There was a time, not so long ago, when this would have been considered a chore. Now dog and master saunter past the new products commenting on what's exotic and what's not.
Today a shipment of Chanterelles.
Next to them some mushrooms with blue stems. The sort of things that if you saw them growing in a woodland you'd studiously avoid picking.
Blue feet. Seems an apt description. We stick with the Chanterelles.
We should have been in Washington for the elections. This morning an e-mail from the 24th St. hotel we planned to stay in saying they're sorry about the cancellation but hope that our '' sheepdogs legs are healing ". Good corporate marketing or a dog lover on the reservations desk who remembers the reason for the cancellation ?
Sophie is in a particularly demonstrative mood when I open up the pen to let her out into the garden. Five minutes is spent with a paw waving PON in my lap.
Bob joins me on an early morning errands trip. The family fellow is hurried past the little garden store before he decides to christen anything.
He is greeted warmly in the cheese shop. The young lady behind the counter has taken to calling him '' Bobby " or ' Bawbeee ' as it emerges in French. He has a little Blue de Chevre. So does his master. We buy a portion for lunch together with some Brie de Melun.
A more difficult choice at the fancy bakers. Bob waits outside. The bakers daughter goes out and chats with him while I decide on what to buy.
It goes without saying that Bob gets given some slivers of baguette.
The blue skies have gone. Replaced by clouds and drizzle. It was in the 70's at the start of the week and is forecast to fall into the mid-40's on Tuesday. Our first frosts of the winter on Thursday. We stop and stare at the donkeys in the field by the crossroads. The donkeys stare back. All is well with the world.
With the advent of colder weather Sophie moves from the garden to the library. She and her owners will be glad when this protracted period of being housebound is over. Thank heavens she has no idea that the second leg has yet to be operated on. Some may view this worry about a dog as ' emotion in excess of its object ' but that's a dog owners right .... it comes with the territory.
The family diva sits in the library listening contentedly to a seminar with the Pasadena astrophysicists. The lecturer is a serious young man with a buzz cut. He wears a thick green fleece and carries an enormous Styrofoam cup of coffee in his right hand. This he places on the desk in front of him. It must hold 2 pints of coffee. He is apparently an authority on gravitational flux. From time to time he stops and takes a lengthy swig. The microphone picks up the sound of coffee brushing past Adams apple. This is ever so slightly disconcerting. When he finishes a point the lecturer asks '' Everyone cool with that ? ".
Bob comes with me to the greengrocers. We note the arrival of smoked garlic. Angus looks down and asks Bob if he's ever heard of smoked garlic. This causes a middle aged woman to move quickly away. She gives me that unmistakable '' community release isn't a good idea " look . Clearly not a dog person.
Four different types of pineapple. Two have come by boat and two by air. The ones that have come by air are the same price as those that have come by boat. Angus wonders why this information about the mode of transportation should be provided. Perhaps pineapple aficionados prefer boat borne to airborne? We chose a small dark variety from Benin for tomorrows breakfast.
Bob spends his afternoon sitting on his stump seat by the front gate and guarding. He does this with ''lamb'' in his mouth. Passing pilgrims laugh. I try to explain to him that the deterrent effect is undermined by the lamb. Bob is unconvinced.
The air has that glorious end of autumn feel to it. Bright and clear. Too bright and too clear. The local farmers seem to think that winter, red in tooth and claw, is on the way. On our late afternoon walk we pass no less than seven tractors ploughing away. Perhaps the local farmers aren't literally making hay while the sun shines but they're certainly tilling the fields while it's still dry.
Some beautiful photos in this NYT slideshow : http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2016/10/20/blogs/on-scotlands-western-isles-glimpses-of-life-tradition-and-reflection/s/20-lens-scotland-slide-2W4A.html?WT.mc_ev=click&WT.mc_id=NYT-E-I-NYT-E-AT-110316-L8&=&=&em_pos=medium&emc=edit_el_20161103&nl=el&nl=at-times&nl_art=5&nlid=44843085&ref=headline&te=1
Brunhilda the German billionaires dog wanders down from the chateau and saunters nonchalantly along the lane. Sophie, who has been dozing in the small courtyard leaps to her feet. Before I can catch her she's on her hind legs, paws on the top of the garden wall for support, barking away at this Teutonic interloper. Lesson #1 with a diva patient - don't ever be lulled into the belief that she's going to lie still and be a good patient.
Bob is still drooling but apart from that is in fine form. His beard has taken on something of a Lenin look.
The family fellow continues to get four walks a day. This compensates for his sisters inactivity and the loss of a companion to charge round the garden with. Hurtling round the garden on your own dealing with invisible dangers just isn't the same.
A few clouds appear overhead. The weather forecast still says that this bright summer weather is going to come to an abrupt and chilly end on Saturday. Along the motorway the leaves on the trees only now beginning to turn.
At the supermarket an array of plastic flowers that weren't sold in time for All Saints day. They're being offered at 30% off. No one is interested. By Saturday they'll be 70% off.
The new moon, Venus, Mars and Saturn all in alignment. Dogs and owners sit outside late at night and drink it all in.
We are beginning to get the '' why are you doing this to me ? " look. Sophie is becoming a very bored girl. 5 weeks of recuperation under our belt - only another 11 to go.
Yesterday was All Saints Day. A national holiday here. The schools shut for two weeks for half term. The annoying eight year old brat who rattles the bars on the gate with a stick while whistling ( both activities designed to drive any dog wild ) has gone off to his grandparents in Lyon with his equally delinquent eleven year old brother. '' Our loss is Lyons gain " says 'The Font' when I impart this piece of news.
The village busy with relatives coming to spruce up the family plots.
The Very Old Farmers slab is covered in chrysanthemums and faux roses. In the absence of the VOFs son Madame Bay has made sure everything is ship shape and Bristol fashion. She grave tends in red canvas shoes with amazingly thick cork soles ( to keep out the cold ), red leggings, a three quarter length grey jacket and a voluminous yellow pashmina. A black turban fastened with a piece of costume jewellery in the shape of a star completes this practical ensemble. There are half a dozen other octogenarian ladies at work alongside her. The graveyard a hive of fashionable labour. Angus is asked to fill the watering cans.
Bob comes with me to the cheese stall at the market. He is given a little Tomme de Pyrenees. His tail does its metronome on steroids routine, going backwards and forwards and round and round at high speed. For humans a sliver of cheese is a fairly mundane gift. For a dog it's a moment when heavens veil is lifted.
The bakers quite frankly a disappointment. By the time we get there they've almost sold out.
In the afternoon there's three hours of solid guarding from the stump seat. Visitors come backwards and forwards to the churchyard with plants and candles. All are individually greeted.
A PON boys work is never done.
As we head out of the gate we see deer grazing on the village green. Bob is all for giving chase but is 'discouraged' from doing so and is put on his lead. Angus sits on the concrete lip of the storm drain and dangles his legs over the side. The male PON sits next to him. This morning, as every morning, it's explained that this is Bobs Country. The donkeys have worked their way down to the far corner of the field and can be seen reaching up to eat the walnuts that grow along the river bank. Dog and master look at them for a while and then, satisfied that all's well with the world, return home.
The menu at the soon to close hotel in the little market town offers goose gizzard Cassoulet. This together with the brochette of duck hearts indicates that we are in deepest, deepest France profonde. Bob thinks everything on the menu sounds wonderful. The fact the hotel is closing tells us that even in this most conservative of regions culinary preferences are becoming healthier .
All Saints Day. The flower seller has encroached onto three parking spaces. There's something about chrysanthemum colours that stops them from being joyous.
On our way home Bob and his best friend park the car and walk down the hill to the valley. Not a soul to be seen. Just the ears of hares stoicking out comically from their forms, nervous deer and now pheasants. Lots and lots of noisy pheasants.
All the fields have been ploughed and the countryside now has something of the look of the desert. Give it a week and some rain and the winter wheat will be poking through. It's been warm enough to sit outside in shirt sleeves but a sharp drop in temperatures is forecast for Thursday. Sophie will need to recuperate in the kitchen.
This little farm house halfway down the hill looks strangely isolated.
