Drunken bees in a land of milk and honey.

Out at first light to open the gates on the drive. The kitchen fitters are expected. With a whoop of excitement Bob and Sophie race out of the front door to check that no cats have settled in the wood pile. They disappear over the brow of the hill. The last I see of them the tips of two tails waving twenty to the dozen. 

From the cherry orchard a throbbing noise. The sound of a early rising farmers tractor echoing up the valley ? The throbbing becomes louder. There, beyond the picket fence, the cherry blossom covered in bees. Two, perhaps three hundred on each tree. Snouts in the pollen, fat rumps waving happily from side to side in the early sun. There must be thousands of them - warm and content and singing - immersed in purpose. Drunken bees in a land of milk and honey. 

Sometimes even an old cynic has to join the PONs in wondering - Can it get any better ?

Not overly impressed.

Easter Monday in France profonde. Hot, cloudless and very, very quiet. The German billionaires, accompanied by a small fleet of vans containing retainers and supplies, arrive at the chateau. Brunhilda - the chateau dog - meets Sophie. Neither seems overly impressed. German money versus Polish princess. The Very Old Farmer gets lost on his way back from his daily visit to the churchyard. Two cars and a tractor pass by in the afternoon.

While Sophie helps 'The Font' convert last nights leg of lamb into a curry, Bob and Angus head off for a long walk. There are badgers about. Bob is kept on his lead. From their aggressiveness it must be assumed that this is badger birthing season. Bob returns home with his nose, if not his pride, intact.

The hollow fruit on the Easter Egg is made from that thin layer of coated sugar that you find on the outside of M&M's. It seems almost a shame to eat them. A reminder of the skill sets that still exist in provincial France.

This marvellous little Texas company was written up in the weekend FT. Imagine organizing a party for all the neighbourhood dogs  : http://bowwowbones.net/menu/

A conversation stopper.

Our first hot day of the year. The PON duo spend much of their morning rediscovering the cool spots in the garden. The grass, which had been carefully reseeded a month ago, looks parched. Closer examination shows that all the new grass seed has been eaten by the wrens that are nesting in the laurel hedge.

The Old Farmer wanders over to tell us about his trip to Paris in the venerable Ford Transit motor home. I ask him if he had difficulty finding somewhere to park . '' Oh no ! " he says. '' I have a lady friend who saves me a spot on Place de la Bourse ".  The thought of a 1968 era motor home with non-matching chintz curtains and a plexi-glass rear window on the square outside the Stock Exchange is, literally, a conversation stopper. 

Isn't life wonderful ?

A bright Easter morning. There's a thick band of clouds out towards the Atlantic but they're forecast to disappear by lunchtime. A warm sunny day lies in store. The PONs head out along the lane stopping just long enough to say hello to the old bow backed horse in the paddock.  Sophie soon gets bored and races after the geese on the Very Old Farmers lawn. She beats a hasty retreat when they advance on her hissing and flapping their wings. She hasn't quite got hang of the fact that chickens can be intimidated, geese can't.

On our way home Bob tries his hand at fishing in the stream. This is unsuccessful but proves to be satisfyingly wet and muddy. While Bob fishes Sophie entertains herself by leaping at the blossom on the hawthorn bushes. This,she discovers, is edible. There's just enough time for a quick nap before we head off into town for our morning coffee.

Our routine at the cafe under the arcades is interrupted by an interloper. Bob leaps out of the back of the car and greets him affably. Sophie howls. The interloper decides Sophie is too much of a diva to handle and beats a retreat. 

Not yet eight in the morning and the PONs adventures are already piling up. Isn't life wonderful ?

A record of those details of life with a dog too unimportant for a diary but too important to be forgotten. 

French radio has been on strike for 3 weeks. They play recordings from the archives all day, non-stop. This morning they played this strangely memorable piece :
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ziJoep1cDlY

Sausage bearing pilgrims ?

Pilgrims make a reappearance. A coachload of Slovenians in matching red parkas are standing on the village green as the sun rises. One has to wonder why they're here. Were they on their way to Lourdes, got lost and decided that the village was as good a place as any to welcome Good Friday ? What time must they have got up ? How do you greet a group of pious Slovenians ? We settle on a firm ' Bonjour ' and continue on our way. Sophie keeps on turning back to check if they might be sausage bearing pilgrims. She's disappointed. Bob christens the fire hydrant. 

The workmen leave us a kitchen. Not a complete kitchen but the tap works and there's a solitary ceiling light. The painter has used the wrong paint to touch up the wall where the electricians and plasterers have put in new electrical sockets. '' I'll take care of it next week'' he says jauntily. The morose lads have been using the radiator in front of the window as a seat. It now leans to the right. Not that it matters. It should be cased in on Wednesday. The floor restorer has a 'hissy fit' over the smudged floor tiles . '' It's not my fault if people walk on them when they're wet ". He leaves; muttering. We open a bottle of champagne. Bob and Sophie clamber in the cupboards. Peace at last.

'Largely finished'

Angus opens the far gates so that the assorted tradesemen can bring their vans into the courtyard. The lady from the Water Board chooses to park her car by the other gates. It only partially blocks the lane.

The laws on septic tanks have changed again. Our 18th century brick cisterns are no longer in 'conformity'.
The lady from the Water Board says that we'll get a grant for bringing The Rickety Old Farmhouses plumbing into the 21st century. 

Bob chases builders vans up and down the drive. When he's not chasing builders vans he chases squirrels.

Back in the kitchen some of the door handles have been fitted. Others haven't. The extractor hood has a malfunction but the suppliers will be along after Easter to 'sort it out'. The wall lights have got a wiring problem. The shop in Paris says it will take eight weeks to order new ones. The kitchen fitters inform us that the work will be 'largely finished by Easter'. The word 'largely' has yet to be more precisely defined. 

The Easter Egg.

The fancy chocolatier phones to say that the Easter Egg we'd ordered is ready. He's decorated it with 'local fruits'. When bananas became local fruits is a subject best not dwelt on. The egg is somewhat larger than imagined.

His wife wraps  the enormous egg in acres of cellophane. While waiting Angus is invited to go into the 'cafe' behind the shop for a cup of coffee. The 'cafe' is like a stage set from a Hammer House of Horrors movie. Pink walls, a brass chandelier, a female torso wearing nothing other than a woolen cap,  orange faux leather banquettes and a sideboard covered in dolls in crinolines. Scary.

After his run in with the builders merchants Bob is convinced he's the most fearsome dog on the planet. We don't like to tell him that a dog who's scared of the plumbers broom isn't really that fearsome.

Just the kitchen fitters today. The oven is in. The ceiling lights should follow by lunchtime. The angelic duo are hoping that someone will set out lunch on the wooden garden table. 

They've been a nightmare.

On the way back from the airport 'The Font' recaps the days highlights at The Rickety Old Farmhouse. 

1) Lunchtime. The builders 'lads' set out a small mountain of baguettes, pate and cheese on a table in the garden. Little do they know it's not just any table - it's the PON table. Their meal is interrupted by the arrival of two Polish Lowland Sheepdogs quite literally landing in their midst. Plates, cups, pate, cheese go flying. 

' The Font ' makes the morose lads lunch. They eat on the terrace. Quiche, salad and a large bowl of chips. Tarte Tatin to follow. Afterwards they all troop inside and politely say thank you. Even the most tongue tied French adolescent becomes lucid where food is concerned. Bob and Sophie are forgiven.

The effect of pate and cheese on the angelic duo's digestive system has yet to make itself fully known.

2) The plasterers use buckets and sponges to wipe down the walls. At lunchtime they leave the buckets on the floor outside the kitchen door. This is just the right height for Sophie who removes the sponges and trots off to the barn with them. She is found proudly guarding a stash of three sponges. One has been half eaten. She is not given the opportunity to increase her collection. 

3) A man from the builders merchant comes into the house to deliver a part. He doesn't ring the bell. He also whistles.The PONs go into defensive mode. Visitors are generally welcome. Unannounced whistling visitors are not. 'The Font ' finds the man from the builders merchants standing on a hall chair, two sheepdogs in full voice, circling him. He is rescued.

Some rug surfing, a quick game of touch rugby, a sliver of steak and then brother and sister are in bed and asleep. A hectic day. Can it get any better ?

Sheepdog mentality.

The clock change has clearly left the locals confused. The little hotel remains firmly shuttered and the Tabac opens its doors forty five minutes late.

Bob does not like it when part of his flock wanders. Thankfully, there are plenty of workmen for him to round up. 

The whoosh of the sliding doors in the departure terminal should perk him up when he comes to collect me this evening. Bob takes his role as family fellow very seriously. 

A balancing act.

The two cheese ladies in the market both went into hospital on the same day for their cancer operations. Both were back at work a month later. We alternate our cheese orders between the two. Thankfully, each gives Bob and Sophie tit bits of cheese which makes this balancing act easier. This morning they have a sliver of Cantal and a small dollop of Gorgonzola. Bob gives the cheese lady a look that says ' I love you '. Later in the week the other cheese lady will get the same look.

In the afternoon we head off to the local market town. We've learnt to reverse the car right up against the car park wall. This stops well intentioned passers by from tapping on the window  and saying 'hello doggy'. Tapping on the window while waving your arms about has an 'electrifying' effect on Bob. We can vouch for the strength of the little Skodas rear window. 

An article asking what people in the future will think of us ? . http://aeon.co/magazine/philosophy/what-will-morality-look-like-100-years-hence/

Angus is off to London to speak to serious folk in dark suits. 'The Font' and the PONs remain behind to deal with the builders and fitters and electricians and plumbers and ....

The clocks go forward.

Annual injection day. Bob, inquisitive as ever, bounds happily into the consulting room. Worldly wise Sophie has to be helped along. 'Helped along'  means being picked up and carried into the surgery. The vet chats away to them. Neither notices the injection or the kennel cough treatment. On our way home we stop at the cafe under the arcades for a restorative half croissant.

The duo sleep for three hours solid. Over excitement or the effect of the drugs ? The vet says that he's nearly lost three dogs last week due to them eating mildewed walnuts. Something he'd never seen before. The National Veterinary Centre in Lyons told him it was down to the long wet, mild winter. 

The mayor has convinced the horse farm to build a small car park on the edge of their property. In return they'll get planning permission for a new barn. The car park will hopefully remove the Belgian womans problem with vehicles blocking her gate and turning in her driveway. At the moment the proposed car park is a sea of mud.The riding school owner doesn't look very happy. Can't believe the Belgian woman is either. 

This morning the clocks have gone forward an hour. It's pitch dark when I wander downstairs  to let the angelic duo out for their morning constitutional. Sophie gives me her " Don't you know what time it is ? " look and tries to hide under a blanket. Bob, oblivious to the time,  heads across the garden at high speed in search of squirrels. Brother and sister but such different characters.

Gallic chaos.

We're down early at the cafe under the arcades for our illicit half croissant . The greengrocer is still unloading his van. We buy two punnets of strawberries. The lady in the blue dressing gown and pom-pom slippers is about to have her first sip of beer. She bids a warm welcome to Bob and Sophie oblivious to the dab of froth on the end of her nose.

We get home to find the tile restorer applying some dark brown liquid to the floors. '' This'll bring out the lustre and have them looking good as new ". He says this with what might pass for conviction. Angus is doubtful about the 'good as new' part of the statement. Angus is also doubtful about the 'restore the lustre' part too. 

After that it's Gallic chaos. The kitchen fitters arrive. They unload their truck. The kitchen designer in the red trousers returns with 'the tap'. We tell him, again, we don't want it. He mutters and disappears trailing bad grace in his wake. 

The electricians stay just long enough to say the cooker hood doesn't have a fitting for the extractor pipe. They too leave. The man who's restoring the tiles informs everyone they can't walk on them until they're dry. The plumbers walk on them. Loic the bifocaled gardener wanders upstairs and wonders if he should take the tractor and cut the lawn. 'No !' says 'The Font' emphatically. 

Bob and Sophie are told umpteen times they're not allowed in the kitchen. They feign deafness. Bob is in one of his inquisitive moods. Sophie is in one of her ' stop everything you're doing and adore me ' moods. Neither is helpful. The PONs are banished into the front garden. The plumbers can't find the right flange. 'We'll be back later' they say. After that a deep Friday afternoon silence descends on The Rickety Old Farmhouse.

Progress ?

A thing the books never mention.

Bob and Sophie will drink from anything. Stagnant green ponds, muddy puddles, drainage ditches with a thin film of something unidentifiable dusting the surface. The more polluted the water, the better. If their owners emit a 'yeugh' sound and call them back they know they're in canine heaven.

However, if their bowl at home isn't kept topped up with crystal clear water they'll refuse to go near it. That guilt inducing stare that says " This waters three hours old ". 

Herein lies an aspect of dog behaviour the 'books' never mention.

Why ?