The Old Farmer has somehow managed to struggle down the steps from his terrace and get his old Mercedes out of the garage. He's squeezed himself into the drivers seat with the zimmer frame propped unceremoniously on the passenger side. The old fellow sets off for a spin while the roads are quiet. The original intention had been to drive to the polling station on Sunday in the equally ancient Peugeot. However, this has a manual transmission and pushing the clutch is too painful for him. The Mercedes is an automatic.
Such small victories make the world turn.
Out on the ridge Sophie's too busy hunting down tantalizing smells to notice how clear the air is. The tamarisk bushes in full bloom. We tried growing them in Scotland but ended up with wee stumpy things that never flowered. Here they're ten feet tall and luxuriant. Amazing what a bit of sunshine and the absence of gales can do for a plant.
Who would have thought six months ago that the family diva would be navigating rough terrain with the ease ( if not the grace ) of a ballerina ? This morning is a morning for the angelic duo to roll over and over and over in the grass.
An unusual sight. Two American ladies in the bakers. They're making cooing noises at the cakes and telling the young lady behind the counter '' We don't have pastries like this in Zanesville ". The young lady behind the counter smiles at them but, speaking not a word of English, has absolutely no idea what they're saying. I leave the two American ladies discussing whether slices of vegetable quiche would be the sort of thing '' real French people eat for breakfast ".
Immersed in their appreciation of the bakers products the women remain gloriously oblivious to the fact that a lengthy and increasingly impatient queue has formed behind them.
Fermented milk makes an appearance in the grocers. Why are the shelves suddenly full of it?
Is this the best advert of the year ? : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjKd24UCPYY
The town hall is open early. The mayor and his unsmiling secretary preparing for the first round of the Presidential elections on Sunday. This year the polling booth ( the mayors office ) will be open from 8.00 am until 7.00 pm. The mayors wife will be providing her honey croissants as sustenance for the tellers. 'There will be three officials in attendance at all times ' says the mayor with great deliberation. A dress rehearsal will be held on Thursday.
The school buses have started running again after the Easter break. The annoying tike and his elder brother are standing, heads low, waiting by the war memorial. They look miserable on this first day of the new term. Glumness made flesh. For a while the village will be spared the sound of their rasping motor bike.
After the farmers warning about a severe drought Angus waters the laurel hedge. The PONs watch him. They enthusiastically lick the drops from the irrigation pipes. Why drink from a bowl when you can drink from an irrigation system ?
The tree peonies past their best. The standard roses coming into bloom.
On our morning walk Angus notices small clouds of pollen dust floating in the air as the PONs barge their way through the long grass. The big car coated in the stuff. Peak allergy season.
Time for a haircut. Bob accompanies me. At the barbers the sickly aspidistra, which doubled up as an ash tray, has finally succumbed to nicotine poisoning. It's been replaced by a small nondescript plant which now stands forlornly in the window. Bob ignores it and settles down in his customary spot and is soon asleep. After wards we go the car wash. Bob enjoys the car wash in a '' I'm glad I'm in here and not out in that weather " sort of way.
Music for a sunny April morning :https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9OJ0bsyIryc
The world may be changing but Bob and Sophie's daily round is etched in stone.
Pandemonium while harnesses are put on. Then the 'what's keeping you ? ' stare while I look for black bags. Finally, everything in order, we turn right out of the gate and head along the lane. The battery in the Old Farmers Peugeot has gone flat after three months of inactivity. The young garagiste has recharged it and is putting it back in place. The Old Farmer , resplendent in fur trappers hat with ear flaps, striped pyjamas , brown dressing gown and zimmer frame is peering under the bonnet and telling him not to tighten the leads too much.
Sophie is engrossed in tracking down some badger droppings. She fails to notice the horse by the side of the field. When she does, she nearly leaps out of her skin. She moves behind my legs and glares at the equine presence. She also glares at her owner for letting her get into such a dangerous position.
We walk down from the escarpment to the valley floor. Then we walk back up again. We meet a farmer who tells me that we're going to have the mother of all droughts this year. '' Haven't ever seen temperatures this high in April ". He pauses then carries on " You'd better start irrigating your laurel hedge ".
At the cafe on the square a Boxer stares at Sophie in a sort of admiring ' I'd like to get to know you better' way. Angus finishes his coffee and the PONs their bowl of water. We hurry away before Sophie has a chance to let the Boxer know what she thinks of him. Some dog owner 'moments' are best avoided.
Back home Bob and Angus sit on the storm drain and watch the donkeys in the field below. Bob is told, as he is told every morning, that this is ' his country '. Sophie is in the kitchen supervising the preparation of a prawn risotto.
So starts a Tuesday morning in deepest, deepest France profonde. Little things too unimportant to be put in a diary but too important to go completely unrecorded.
The Old Farmers Christmas illuminations have been switched on for Easter. The multi-coloured bulbs strung along his gutters, the blue and green lights threaded through the balcony railings and the new star ( smaller than the original which rusted away ) at the end of the long bamboo pole, shine through the night. This, we must presume, is a sign that our neighbour is on the mend.
This morning he's up and about at first light peering quizzically under the bonnet of the ancient Peugeot. He intends to drive the 100 metres to the polling station in it next Sunday.
Bob and Sophie have had some cold lamb with their breakfast kibbles. That alone marks this out as possibly the best day ever. Their humans, lacking canine enthusiasm levels, view it as just another Monday morning.
The election posters remain, so far, free of embellishments.
Who'd have thought workmen would be out and about at eight am on a Monday ? Shortly after we return from our morning walk a large yellow tractor arrives to tidy up the front of the Old Farmers garden. Bob and Sophie are amazed by this development. Bob sits on his stump seat with Furry Fox in his mouth. Sophie stands on her hind legs and barks. I wish she wouldn't do this. The workmen tell her she's 'adorable'. This doesn't stop her barking.
The day has barely begun and already the family PONs are having a whale of a time. Having read the morning news Angus is reminded why having dogs is such an uplifting experience.
Two Monday morning discoveries.
You'll have to scroll down to the tweet at 17h. Can you see the 12 dots ? :https://twitter.com/MaxCRoser
And this simple but telling chart on how farmers have increased grain yields. : https://twitter.com/quantian1/status/851140052470071299/photo/1
Easter morning. The PONs go fishing for minnows in the village pond. The minnows have nothing to fear. There is considerable sturm und drang but little evidence of a workable technique. The PONs get wet and soon forget about minnows. They turn their attention to the wooden picnic table on the village green. Sophie proudly displays a sardine that someone has dropped on the grass. This is chewed then swallowed. She is more than delighted.
A quick trip to the market. Not that we need to buy anything but 'The Font' feels sorry for the young couple that are struggling to make a go of the Italian delicatessen. They never seem to have any customers.The PONs get slivers of Colomba di Pasqua.
The PONs quickly pass the display of lamb carcasses ready to be picked up later this morning. The leg of lamb we collected yesterday seems rather mundane in comparison.
Election fever has now reached the village. Late last night someone came and pasted up posters for each of the eleven candidates in the first round of the presidential elections. For some reason eight of the candidates get half sized billboards while three get full length ones.
Handel playing on breakfast radio . The optimistic simplicity of the line ' Angels in bright raiments ' makes me smile. A day when even Angels put on their party clothes and celebrate. Here's some happy Spanish ladies singing a part of the oratorio
May your Easter be a happy one.
Easter Saturday. A day to go into the little market town and pick up the leg of lamb we've ordered from the butchers. Sophie, who is never the first up, seems to sense that the kitchen is about to become the scene of fevered activity. Her tail is wagging twenty to the dozen.
She is having a good hair day.
The same cannot be said for her brother.
The fur on his ears is smoothed down to make him look less frightful. A boy has to look his best for a trip to the butchers. Who knows? There might be tripe slivers.
There is the usual morning pandemonium as leads and harnesses are fitted. You'd think that their enthusiasm to get the day started might have abated just a little. Not a bit of it. Why be quiet when the best day ever lies ahead ?
This caught my eye :
Bob arrives in the bedroom. He's not allowed in the bedroom but he's taken to wandering in, licking my ear and then, satisfied I'm awake, wandering out. This is called making sure your master knows it's time to get the day started.
The PONs get walked. The almost full moon sinking into the first light. Sophie is in one of her sniff every flower, stare at every animal moods. We don't cover a huge distance but we're out for an hour.
While the PONs sleep their owners head off intoToulouse. An American lady has taken up position on the crossroads by the underground car park and is busily painting the street scene. The town is full of Americans. A large airline is taking delivery of a new aircraft from Airbus and flying it back across the Atlantic on its maiden voyage. First and business class seats have been allocated to travel agents as a 'thank you' perk. The ladies at the table next to us in the cafe don't sound particularly happy. Lory from the Cincinnati office has got a first class seat. They have been given seats in business. A less than flattering analysis of Lory's character and work practises follows.
As they go 'The Font' cheerfully enjoins them to have a good flight. '' Hope you don't get re-allocated ". This little nugget of Swedish humour is met with blank incomprehension.
We go into the Tunisian store in search of fresh Baklava. Three types - walnut, hazelnut and pistachio - just coming out of the bakery.
We also buy some fresh Turkish Delight even though neither of us is really keen on it.
A final stop at the wine merchants and the specialist chocolate shop.
Angus spends half an hour in the wine merchants. When he comes out 'The Font' is still doing battle with the queue in the chocolate shop.
Our journey into town takes fifty minutes. On the way back there's a security alert at the airport . The traffic backed up for miles. A reminder the country is on high alert for the elections. We sit in the traffic for forty five minutes. The PONs are delighted to see us return.
A busy and hot day in deepest, deepest France profonde.
It's Madame Bays wedding anniversary. Monsieur Bay has bought her an amethyst ring. Not a large amethyst ring but an amethyst ring. Our octogenarian mentor arrives at first light, 'Wild Child' voiturette sputtering down the drive, to show it off. Madame Bay is wearing her summer heat outfit - yards of chiffon draped and layered. A modern take on Gandhi although Gandhi lacked Madame Bays Rubenesque proportions and didn't ( as far as I know ) ever wear a paisley turban held in place at the front by what, from a distance, might be the Kohinoor diamond. Sandrine, Madame Bays hairdresser daughter has painted her mothers toe and finger nails ' Tahiti Passion Pink' for the great day. Open toed diamante sandals help show off the paint work to maximum effect. Angus is unsure whether the hairdresser daughter has painted her mothers nails as a fashion statement or whether the two of them have had one of their rows and Sandrine has taken revenge. The colour is 'strident'.
Madame Bay helps herself to a cup of coffee and holds out a hand so that we can inspect the ring. Suitable adulatory noises are made. ' Madame Bay smiles and holds the ring up to the light. She imparts a little country folklore - " Did you know if you show an emerald to a snake, tears will flow from its eyes ? ". We remain silent. She pauses and then continues " The emerald's the colour of the garden of Eden. Bitterly does the snake remember its sin ".The 'Bitterly' part of the sentence is repeated not just twice but three times. While we mull over the enormity of this archaically formulated thought Madame Bay goes off into the larder in search of a chocolate biscuit.
The box trees in the garden are being attacked by a moth that lays its larvae, spreads like wildfire and literally devours them. The disease is slowly making its way North. Angus buys some chemicals but the instructions advise the user to wear thick rubber gloves, a face mask and goggles while applying it. Not an ideal substance to introduce into a garden frequented by inquisitive PONs. 'The Font' phones the gardener who shows up with a power blower and a moth killing powder that won't harm the dogs. He's gone within twenty minutes.
The Old Farmer waves at us from his balcony. ' I've heard the first cuckoo. Summers here ! ' he shouts out as dogs and master head off along the lane. By the crossroads a deer scampers out from behind a laurel bush and goes bounding off across the fields. It must have been three feet away at most. Neither of the PONs notice it. They're busy chasing a flock of pheasants that take off with an explosive flap of their wings and glide gracefully into the safety of the walnut trees. Stealth is not a PON trait.
Peak pilgrim season. A donkey tethered to a tree outside the newsagent. A father 'bonding' with his eight and ten year old sons by walking the route to Compostella. The donkey their ' carry it all ' travelling companion.
The father and his two sons stop to talk to two Danish girls and two German boys who are also walking to Spain. While they chat the donkey purposefully eats the shrubs in the window boxes outside the restaurant. No one seems to notice or care.
Traffic light design is a topic of conversation that rarely rears its head. ' The Font' observes that new traffic lights have been installed by the zebra crossing. They are rather more stylish than the standard three lights in a box on top of a pole variety.
Here's the earliest dental work ever found : http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/d-brief/2017/04/10/ancient-dentistry-tooth-filling/#.WOzrvIiGN3h
Sophie sits and waits patiently while Angus searches for Bobs harness and lead. Not as hot today but we're now in our summer routine of doing our major walk of the day at first light while it's still cool.
This morning thee council workmen are putting out the billboards for the first round of the Presidential elections a week on Sunday. There are 11 billboards. One for each of the candidates. Three of them are large, the other eight half sized.
Strawberries in the greengrocers. They're coming down in price. A kilo carton was 14 Euros but has now fallen to 10. Different varietes joining the Garriguettes.
We buy some white asparagus for lunch.
Peppers from Cuba make an appearance. How the world changes. Pimentos from Madagascar. Now that's exotic.
Bob sometimes does an excellent impersonation of an owl. For him the world is a source of constant surprise and excitement.
A quiet start to a Tuesday morning in deepest, deepest France profonde. Or, I should say, an almost quiet morning. The two 'tike' brothers have been given one of those raspy two stroke motorbikes. They're both up and about early , rasping through the village and enjoying their Easter holidays. The fact they're uninsured, doing wheelies on the speed bumps and generally being a hazard to other road users is of no interest to their parents. Angus decides the rasp of the engine is more annoying than the rattle of a stick against the bars of the gate. As a gesture to health and safety the two tikes wear ill fitting helmets.
