Mrs. Garrigues pig.

First light. Bob and Sophie are waiting in the courtyard . Bob gives me his '' what's keeping you ? '' look.

The old farmer is selling mushrooms from a trestle table at his front door. An unusual development. 

Mid afternoon. The lady in the purple hat, the mayor and three members of the Village Fleuri committee can be seen clustered round the war memorial. A ceremony to unveil a trough of blue, white and red pansies in honour of the 70th anniversary of the American invasion of Provence. The poor attendance down to the fact that the lady with the beehive hairdo has forgotten to post out the invites to the villagers. If we'd known we'd have gone. 

In the local paper a story about the visit of Madame Garrigue, her dog, her rabbit and her pig to the old folks home. The dog and rabbit are pictured. Perhaps the pig wasn't as well received .

The charm of life in deepest, deepest France profonde.

Wonder is involuntary praise.

It's darker in the mornings. That point in the years third quarter where autumn gets ready to show its hand. Not that Bob and Sophie notice or care. For them every morning is a wonderful adventure. This morning there are young deer everywhere, peering out at us from the safety of the sunflower fields. Brother and sister stay on their leads.

Madame Bay comes by to give us some of her home grown cherry tomatoes and update us on the state of the village. The Parisian business man who was found by his wife  'entertaining' his secretary at home has put the house by the church up for sale. Madame Bay says it's in bad shape inside after all the pipes burst in the cold snap two years ago. Rather more sadly the Very Old Farmer has gone into hospital for a cancer operation. Why a man in his 90's should be scheduled for such invasive surgery a mystery. The operation will be sometime on Monday. His son didn't come from Toulouse to take him into the hospital so Monsieur Bay drove him there instead.

In the evening we chat to an Austrian couple on their way to the pilgrims hostel in the valley. They tell us about this http://www.bergbahn-pillersee.com/jakobskreuz-en/

Enthusiasm moves the world

The gardeners are asked to deliver a load of bark for the rose border. They say they'll deliver it next week. It therefore comes as a surprise when a morose young man and a large truck arrive, unannounced, at the gate. Same day delivery. There's nothing like the beep beep beep of a truck horn to raise the PON's from a mid-morning doze.

The morose young man is greeted enthusiastically. He wears his baseball cap back to front. Rarely a good sign. Bob and Sophie watch him shovel bark out of the back of the truck and onto the rose border. They help by redistributing the bark across the garden. Sophie eats it. The morose young man tries to collect up the redistributed bark. It is redistributed again. The young man is delighted when the PON's are ordered inside . He completes his shovelling and is quickly back in his truck and away.

I is happy.

Two articles about dogs in one of those glossy magazines you only find in dentists waiting rooms. For once the hygienist doesn't start a lecture about flossing. Miracles never cease.

London sunny. Halfway across the Channel the weather changes and the clouds build up. It's been windy back here in France. Two of the pool umbrellas blown over, their spokes bent and broken.

Bob is delighted to have found the 'lost' part of his flock. Mr. Glum instantly restored to Mr. Happy. He imparts a PON style kiss. He tries to land a second one but his owner has been forewarned. Sophie is less demonstrative. She allows her owner to tickle her then rushes off into the orchard to chase a blackbird.

Don't let yesterday take up too much of today.

Time for a walk through the sunflower fields. Then home to change. Angus is off to talk to men in dark suits . Bob recognizes the ' going away ' shoes. Mr. Happy becomes Mr.Glum.

I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.

Six thirty. Bob and Sophie slurp noisily from their bowl while I go to get the car. On the morning walk we spy clouds of smoke. The local farmers burning off the wheat in the fields. This is illegal but the older farmers get up early, set light to the stubble and claim the fire was caused by lightning.

The cafe in the little market town still closed. We go to a neighbouring village. Home to a wonderful restaurant, a perfect ( if over restored) 12th century Cluniac church and one of those cafes run by a slightly eccentric woman who today is wearing  a floral ballgown and wild flowers in her hair. "Dedans ou dehors" she demands. 'Dehors' I reply. She snorts. My freshly brewed coffee is brought out in a white bone china cup and saucer. The PONs, unbidden, get given a bowl of water . The coffee costs me 80 cents.

Loud peels of thunder interrupt our tour of the village. Bob is oblivious to the thunder. Sophie isn't. As the hail cascades down she puts on her best PON princess act. '' I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship ". She gets her hair tousled and settles down in the back of the car under her brother.

A day without laughter is a day wasted.

At the market I buy a loaf of Moroccan bread . The Moroccan man says '' that will be a million Euro's please. I hope you have the exact change ". He says this every week and every week I laugh politely.

The local rugby club are throwing a 21st birthday party in the Salle des Fetes. They've decided to come as Scotsmen. The first and second teams parade along the lane to the sound of Flower of Scotland playing from a car CD player. Many are wearing  faux ginger wigs and tartan 'bunnets' . They each wave as they pass. Bob greets each of them .

Late afternoon. The bell at the gate rings. The young fireman from St.Etienne is standing there. '' M'Ongoose ! Come over. We're singing Scottish songs ". So it is that Bob and Sophie find themselves with their owner on the village green. We're alongside the kilted rugby players, bemused Bulgarian melon pickers and a group of apparently feral children. All of us singing the Karaoke version of those allegedly Old Scots tunes - Old MacDonald had a farm ( the e-eye-e-eye-oh part entered into with tuneless gusto by the crowd ), Waltzing Matilda and Oh Suzanna ! 

Bob and Sophie thoroughly enjoy themselves. Their owner takes some comfort from the fact that no one can call him 'standoffish'.

'' Jesus '' de Lyon et son Camembert entier roti au four.

Bob and Sophie start the day with a quick tour of the garden  ( conducted at high speed ) followed by a ferocious battle over control of an old pillow case. There's time for a long drink before heading off for a paddle in the stream and a leisurely amble along the lane to see the calves and the two new foals. The energy levels of healthy young dogs a wonder. 

A local restaurant has put up a menu touristique. You know its a menu touristique because its been translated into English. '' Jesus '' de Lyon et son Camembert entier roti au four. A whole Camembert baked with Lyon sausage served with vegetables and salad. 'The font' wonders who would choose this artery blocking delight. 

For sky watchers tonight promises to be spectacular  http://www.telegraph.co.uk/earth/earthnews/11021078/Dramatic-supermoon-and-Perseid-meteor-shower-to-light-up-night-skies-on-Sunday.html

Real love is a pilgrimage. It happens when there is no strategy, but it is very rare because most people are strategists.

In the supermarket there's a group of shaven headed Poles. Agricultural workers here for the melon harvest. I tell them that the French for piwo is biere. They look gruff but when they come back out to the car park loaded with bottles of Kronenbourg they see the PON's and laugh like children. Sophie soaks up the attention. Bob is less sure.

The cafe under the arcades is still closed. We stop off at at the McDonald's on our way home. The PON duo wait patiently while I go in to order a coffee.  A new special - goats cheese wraps. Don't think they would be a hit in Topeka. The young man behind the counter brings out a bowl of water . He puts it down and chats to the dogs without a hint of embarrassment. 

On the way back into the village a line of pilgrims. We've seen more this year than the previous four years put together. This article from Der Spiegel ( in English ) offers an explanation. The second page is the more interesting.

http://www.spiegel.de/international/europe/more-popular-than-ever-way-of-st-james-still-offers-enlightenment-a-983670.html

Unsophisticated pleasures

Up along the lane to the crest of the hill. The grain silo glowing yellow from the sunflowers around its base. The cows in the field by the stream have calved. The young ones asleep in the long grass. One young fellow, braver than the others, stands behind a pylon and peers at us. 

By the time we get home Sophie is tired out from all the excitement. She turns on her back and is soon snoring like a trooper on the courtyard gravel. We find ourselves laughing out loud. The unsophisticated pleasures of dog ownership.

The gentleman with the book at the 1:24 stage reacts nonchalantly to this impromptu rendition :

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W9QMM_nTuC4#t=101

The biggest reward for a job well done is to have done it.

Young deer everywhere. Skittish faces peer out from the sunflowers that line the road. We count six of them this morning. Bob and Sophie are keen to give chase. They're kept firmly on their leads. What has made this a bumper year for deer ? The wet summer or the mild winter ?

Somewhere in the house Bob finds a bobble hat. Bob is an inquisitive fellow so we've learnt to keep drawers firmly closed to stop items of clothing being 'liberated'. Clearly someone hasn't followed this rule to the letter. The bobble hat soon becomes  a drool covered piece of cloth. For the rest of the morning Bob carefully guards the 'bobble' part of the hat in his mouth. He exudes the sort of happiness that comes with a job well done.

In the afternoon it's hot and humid. Sophie adopts her '' je suis la princesse sublime " attitude to life and dozes in the cool of the downstairs hallway.  Bob chases lizards on the decking. In the evening they stand by the courtyard gate ready to welcome any passing pilgrims. There aren't any. Instead they bark at the jays in the plane trees. PON's are not a quiet breed.

The things bagpipers have to worry about. 

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/heritage/bagpipers-concern-over-potential-travel-ban-1-3500955

Everything is magic until it becomes routine.

A group of Czech pilgrims click-clack down the lane at first light. We know they're Czech pilgrims because a large green Mercedes van with a hand printed sign saying '' Praha - Santiago di Compostella 2014 "  slowly follows on behind . The pilgrims make happy cooing noises as they pass . Sophie yelps in frustration . Bob, ever the serious one, sits on his stump seat and stares. 

Time to open up the cellar to stow away the pottery bought at the village fair . A stoneware orange juice squeezer ( '' why ever did you buy that ? " ) a collection of floral breakfast cups and a large white ceramic platter are placed next to accumulated earthenware mugs and olive oil bowls. In a thousand years time archaeologists excavating The Rickety Old Farmhouse will have a field day.  Bob and Sophie love the cellar. It's dark and full of spiders and supposedly out of bounds. Life when you're an eighteen month old PON is magical.