A pre-breakfast walk with the PONs. A full hour out in the cool air. They bounce along the lane as they return home to be fed. They then fall happily asleep. We drive into Toulouse for Palm Sunday. 10.00 am when we get there. The town deserted in the way only French towns can be on a Sunday morning.
Five Sushi delivery bikes left out overnight ( unpadlocked ) on the pavement. You wouldn't do that in Glasgow.
The sun casts the shadow of a chapel belfry onto a row of houses.
Piles of palm frondes being handed out on the streets. Teenage soldiers with automatic pistols patrolling the town centre and trying to look 'stern'. The soldiers stop and chat to the girls handing out the palm frondes. The girls break off sprigs and put them in the soldiers berets. Both boys and girls laugh. Chatting to girls is more important than looking stern. On reflection that's the spirit of Easter in a nutshell.
In the Cathedral an altogether more formal atmosphere. The frondes are piled up by the door of the nave. A verger monitors their distribution.
We pass a shop selling metal Foie Gras filled Easter Eggs. We are not tempted.
By eleven the Square in the middle of town is getting busy and the waiters are laying tables for lunch.
Some parts of France manage to retain a Frenchness that seems impervious to change.
Back in the village a young couple are picnicking under the shade of the lime tree on the village green. Picnic rug, umbrella, plates set out, the lot. Sophie wanders over to introduce herself. Bob holds back then, sensing an opportunity, darts forward, hurtles over the picnic rug and disappears behind the Salle des Fetes with a piece of bread and pate clamped in his jaw
All things considered the young couple are remarkably good about having their lunch interrupted. I retreat to the house and bring them a compensatory bottle of wine. Bob, who knows he has been a miscreant, heads back, head low, towards me. All is forgiven but Sophie is miffed that her brother has managed to get something to eat that she hasn't. 'The Font' sighs and then observes brightly that there can be no doubting that Bobs eyesight is as right as rain.
Suddenly it's turned hot. Not warm - hot.
Sophie watches me drag the garden umbrellas out of winter storage.
The PONs get a pre-breakfast walk down the hill to the stream. The farmers already up and about ploughing the fields while the air's still fresh.
Then a trip to the little market town for a coffee and a visit to the fancy 'artisinal' chocolate shop. The cafe already full of market goers. Bob and Sophie share a bowl of water and get given some choux bun crumbs. Although it's early there's a long queue of people at the chocolatiers slowly determining which egg they should buy. Chocolate at Easter is a big French thing.
The chocolate shop is run by a grandmother with one eye and an ill fitting yellow wig which perches at a thirty degree angle on her head. A mass of silver curls peak out from under the wig. She wears a white trouser suit with red stripes on the sleeves and a double width of stripes along the side of her trousers. Her sixty something daughter dresses entirely in black and glares malevolently at customers through thick black mascara. An aging Goth look. On this busy day two teenage great grand daughters have been roped in to serve customers. One does all the work, the other passes her time staring aimlessly out of the window. She is presumably either love struck, disinterested or quite possibly what the Scots would call glaikit.
Angus asks the aimlessly staring one what 'Petits Pois au Lard '' are. She looks at him, pauses - at length - to think of an answer and then opines '' They're Petits Pois au lard ". Glaikit. Angus makes an executive decision to buy a chocolate chicken and an Easter egg. The girl wraps these up - slowly . Angus declines the offer of having them tied in pink ribbon. There is a backwards and forwards conversation with her sister at the till as to what they think the price of each item should be. When I get home I discover the chicken and the egg have been wrapped in great flounces of pink ribbon.
Bob and his master head off for a reviving fishing expedition at the little waterfall.
And here's a golden oldie for those about to take their dogs on a Sunday morning walk.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jofNR_WkoCE
Time for the first Simnel cake of Easter. Lighter than Christmas cake ....
.... and with a decadent layer of marzipan running through the middle. Eleven marzipan balls to represent the disciples ( minus Judas ) decorate the top. This is a seasonal tradition in Scotland and Ireland but not France.
To walk it off Angus and the PONs go for a boundary marking tour of the village. Sophie stops to glare at the frogs by the pond. Only two of them leap into the water. The others, too busy basking in the sun, doze on the grass bank.
Sophie hurtles through the door of the cheese mongers. Angus buys a Banon for 'The Font' and some Reblochon. The PONs get slivers of Tome. Bob does his ' I have died and gone to heaven ' soft shoe shuffle. Sophie is disappointed that we have to leave so soon. She is 'encouraged' out.
On the market Square there's time for a coffee. The waiter brings the PONs a bowl of water to share. They get given a dry biscuit that comes wrapped in cellophane. The waiter unwraps it , breaks it in two and gently offers it to them. They retreat under the table with their prize.
Late afternoon. Bob and Angus head off across the fields. Cheese and a cellophane wrapped biscuit. It's turned out to be the best day ever.
No tree surgeon today. He's finished everything he's supposed to do. Instead it's the turn of the lawn mower repair man to show up. He hands over the lawn tractor and a bill for E173. I ask why it's not covered by warranty. '' Because you've had it for two and a half years " he replies. Angus can't really think of anything to say in reply. How time flies.
Crossing the village green we stop to chat to the mayor. The Very Old Farmers house has been sold. A Polish builder has bought it and intends to renovate the property as accommodation for his workers. The mayor has given him approval to install inside lavatories and a septic tank. It seems the Polish builder has been working in the UK for the last ten years but has decided to open up an operation in France in case Brexit and work permits prove to be a problem. Quite what the charmingly inefficient local tradesmen will think about a) competition b) competition that undercuts them and c) competition that will show up on the day and at the time agreed - remains to be seen. Angus can't help but think that revolutions in France have been caused by less.
Bob and his master wander down the ox track to the little waterfall. Bob walks off his lead for the first part of the journey but as we get close to the stream he's tethered up. The ducks are nesting in the reed beds and I don't want them surprised by the enthusiastic and unstealthy hunting antics of a male PON. Not that I need worry about the nesting ducks. Bob is completely engrossed in trying to catch minnows. He peers into the water, raises his paw and brings it down with a splash. You'd think after a dozen or so attempts he might get discouraged or bored. Not a bit of it. I think of explaining refraction to him but decide against it.
He's eventually encouraged, firmly, home.
In the evening 'The Font' listens to French Radio. A teenager is interviewed and comes out with the startling observation : ' I only watch television when I go to my Grans. Mind you she's really old. She's in her fifties '.
This dog has learnt not to chase ducks :
The tree surgeon arrives at first light. He's here to make sure the trees by the barn haven't been damaged by the spring storms . The PONs watch him clamber through the branches with canine amazement. Bob sports his ' Blimey ! Take a look at that ! ' face.
On the village green the political posters for the Presidential election have been covered by a poster of an ageing crooner and an advert for a music festival in a market town twenty miles away.
Sophie joins me on a long cross country walk. She loves wandering free through the long grass. Sophie grazes as she walks. She particularly enjoys a clump of tall clover. By the end of her walk through the undergrowth she's looking more like a sheep than a dog.
The tree surgeon is still busy at work when we get home. The PONs spend their morning staring at him. They find falling branches to be particularly exciting. Falling branches are an excuse to hurtle round the garden at high speed.
And here's an interesting interview. Science becomes theology ?
Bob is up first.
His sister joins him in the garden shortly thereafter.
They wait impatiently while I go to get their harnesses. While waiting Bob does his silent on the spot jig. Sophie emits a series of her modulating 'get a move on' yelps. She pauses from yelping long enough to savage a stuffed turtle.
Soon(ish) everyone is harnessed up and we set off. The PONs rush ahead along the lane. Bob sprints.Sophie half sprints, half walks. We wave to the farmer in his white van, the late running school secretary in her garish Renault and the young garagiste on his motorbike. There are pauses of varying lengths while we stop to look at the horses, the four donkeys, three sheep and the herd of expectant cows that have been moved into a paddock by the stream. By the statue of the swaying Jesus the mayor and the man with anger management issues are digging horse manure into the churchyard rose beds. The PONs are greatly interested in this. Sophie's urge to 'recycle' the horse manure has to be curtailed.
When we return home the bees are out in force on the wisteria above the door. Hundreds of them. Bumble bees, honey bees, and half a dozen other types all working frenziedly away. Wisteria must be a bee favourite. The sound of their labours can be heard as we cross the village green. I'm particularly taken with the large black bees with double wings. These buzz away diligently despite having the aerodynamic grace of a double decker bus.
In our absence in California an election poster appeared on the village hall noticeboard. It's now been joined by another. Both are for the same candidate. He has such a lead in the polls that the other candidates seem to have decided not to bother with putting up flyers. His tag line : ' Rediscover our spirit of conquest to build a new France '. Guess that's a fancy way of saying ' Drain the swamp. Last nights television was dominated by a four hour live debate amongst the candidates.
These photos are out of this world : http://gizmodo.com/1793990665?utm_campaign=socialflow_io9_twitter&utm_source=io9_twitter&utm_medium=socialflow
And for those sad souls looking for an update on Brexit I'd 100% agree with this : https://capx.co/england-has-gone-mad/
Problems with posting but this version might come through. Click on the photo of the cockatoos to get started. The funniest thing around. Elvis lives : https://twitter.com/BBCJonSopel/status/848301152080994305
Frogs are sunbathing on the grass banks of the village pond. As we approach they leap, one after the other , into the water . Synchronized diving. The Busby Berkeley's of nature. Bob thinks of giving chase but is 'encouraged' not to.
The milk chocolate Easter bunnies have arrived in the shops. En masse they seem slightly maniacal.
The red trousers are no longer on sale. My chance of buying them at a 50% discount gone. The mannequin now sports a red jumper to go with the red trousers. A combination of the trousers and matching jumper would make the wearer very red indeed.
We read the morning papers then take them round to The Old Farmer for him to peruse. He's sitting on a plastic chair on his terrace. He rolls up his trouser leg. When they took off his cast they also took off a lot of skin and left a lot of bruises. '' Look at this. The nurses were idiots. Didn't know what they were doing " he says grumpily. The district nurse has arranged for an exercise bike to be delivered. He sits on this and peddles away for hours in an attempt to rebuild the damaged muscles. He is not at all pleased with the slow progress in getting back on his feet. '' It's been two months now ". He leans forward in his chair and and tickles Sophie's ear. This makes him laugh.
So starts our Tuesday morning
The post lady arrives at the front gate. '' You've got a parcel from America " she calls out with an equal measure of cheeriness and nosiness. A parcel from abroad a rarity in this deeply conservative part of France. A lady in Pebble Beach has sent Bob a bandana.
He smiles in a particularly goofy way when he's told he looks like John Wayne.
Sophie is too busy savaging Furry Fox to have a bandana put on her. A girl has her priorities.
Brother and sister are in fine form. Sophie's right leg seemed to be a bit stiff for the first three or four days after leaving the kennels but is now as good as new. The PONs 'help' as I prune the roses. 'Help' means tearing round the garden at high speed.
Bandana-ed Bob and unbanadana-ed Sophie come with me to the bakers . We choose a raspberry and coconut mousse cake. The PONs share a misshaped croissant.
Fresh lemons in the greengrocers. A sure sign that summer is fast approaching.
So starts our Monday morning .
Overnight a brief but passionate storm sweeps down from the mountains scattering watering cans, rattling shutters and overturning garden furniture. This morning the air fresh, the grass wet underfoot. Bob and Sophie sleep through the crashes and bangs and wake refreshed and ready for whatever might lie in store.They bound out of the door and scurry, noses hard to the ground, round the garden. Angus puts on a sweater.
Down in the copse by the donkey field the sound of badgers singing. That low plangent uninterrupted growl that signals they're simply content or have just fed until they're fit to burst - or both. Whatever the reason there's an intentionality to the sound that signals all is well with the world. I laugh out loud and tell Bob we live in a land of happy badgers. He pauses from sniffing, then looks up in acknowledgement into my eyes in that way which elevates dogs above other animals. Sophie has little time for such notions. She's in the bottom of a ditch amid the veitch and orchard grass savouring something that humans would find alarming.
After an hour of scavenging in ditches two wet and dishevelled PONs are loaded into the back of the car and driven to the greengrocers.
Fresh Gariguettes and thick white asparagus on display. We buy some fresh potatoes to boil and have with asparagus and ham for lunch.
This morning the greengrocers teenage Down's syndrome daughter is manning the till. She rings up the strawberries then stops and laughs and scratches Bobs ear. She informs him he's handsome. His tail wags. She then rings up the asparagus before stopping to tickle Sophie's head and tell her she's beautiful. The girl laughs freely, the laugh modulating higher when the PONs lick her hand.
Such are the little points of innocence that punctuate an April Sunday.
Things too small and unimportant for a diary but too innately human to go completely unrecorded.
This must have traumatized the little guy :
Saturday morning. We're up at 4.30 am. The 9 hour time difference taking longer to adjust to than usual. This may be due to a rough and sleepless flight back. Somewhere over Butte the plane shook so much the water jumped out of my glass. On board there was a cathedral choir returning to England from a tour of California. As the plane lurched they started to sing. A psalm amidst the turbulence might have seemed like a good idea to some passengers but was rather too much like a scene from 'Airplane' for my liking.
It goes without saying that Bob and Sophie think that getting up early and haring round the garden in the pitch dark is a wonderful start to their day. We head off to the bakers at 5.00 am. The cakes on display somewhat less 'muscular' than the example seen on sale in Carmel.
Ladies of the night, recreational pharmaceutical users and late returning clubbers with more tattoos than is perhaps wise hang out in the Pacific Beach Denny's at four in the morning. They are joined for a while by a (comparatively) staid European couple who are adjusting to California time. By the third day the waitress has reserved us a booth by the window and is treating us as regulars.
'The Font' orders oatmeal and fresh fruit. Fresh fruit in Denny's means sliced bananas. Angus discovers the Sticky Bun Pancake Breakfast. Cinnamon sauce and cream cheese icing drizzled over two new fluffy buttermilk pancakes with glazed pecans cooked inside. Hash browns, a couple of eggs and bacon positioned alluringly alongside.
An article in the New York Times about our little touch of paradise. The cafe in the little market town marked out as one of the best in France. The effusive writer has clearly never tasted their coffee. How strange to be reading about it sitting under the neon lights of a California diner.
Not every Sunday morning is the same.
Some California golf courses could be in Scotland although the weather is altogether better.
