What will strut the stage ?

The warm humid weather has brought the onion fields out into sudden bloom. Did the farmer fail to harvest them in time or are they meant to flower like this ? Sophie finds the onions 'intriguing'.

Today is the day of the funeral for the farmers wife. There will be a mass in the church at 3:30. Bruno, the depressive accordion playing physiotherapist has been asked to accompany the hymns. The church organ is out of action due to the fact that jays have nested in the  pipes. The mayor felt that some music was better than no music. Bruno is also booked for the sing along on the village green on Saturday afternoon. Michel, the DJ, with his ' Sound of Saturday Night Fever ' will be there too. Alarmingly the poster says that amateur musicians will be welcome. Heaven only knows what will strut the village hall stage.

There's something going on.

Five combine harvesters roll along the lane at first light. The harvest underway. Bob is soon awake and announcing that there's something going on outside that requires his immediate presence. 

We discover that overnight 'The Font' has left the car windows down. An owl has taken the opportunity to 'pop inside ' and spend time carousing on the dashboard. We use a full packet of disinfectant wipes to make the interior of the little Skoda habitable. The PONs find the new smells 'intriguing'.

Time to think of opening up the pool. Needless to say the hugely expensive, solar powered pool cover doesn't work. While Angus curses the fact we ever bought it Sophie spends her time lying on the wooden table sunbathing. I tell her she looks indecorous. She deals with this criticism by turning onto her other side and snoring.

Bob comes to see me every twenty minutes to suggest a game of 'throw the furry fox'. I'm beginning to miss the builders morose lads. They have an enthusiasm for the game that never seems to wear off.

The weekend copy of Svenska Dagbaldet carries photographs of the royal wedding in Stockholm. 'The Font' comments aloud about Princess Birgitta's ABBA inspired costume.

http://www.gettyimages.fr/detail/photo-d'actualit%C3%A9/princess-christina-mrs-magnuson-guest-princess-photo-dactualit%C3%A9/476990700

Strange presentiment.

To the valley for our morning walk. When we were here last week the farmers wife wandered over to tell us to stick to the road because they've gone back to old fashioned cattle rearing. The cows are being allowed to wander off to find a quiet spot where they can give birth alone. For the first three or four days the mothers divide their time between grazing with the herd and feeding the carefully hidden calf. After that the young one is introduced to the other mothers who surround it and lick it all over. A prelude to being accepted into the herd. The farmers wife says says this 'natural' way of farming breeds happier, healthier cows. 

The mayor waves me down as we drive into town for the morning croissants. The farmers wife went into hospital on Thursday for an operation ( it seems she was a three pack a day smoker ) and passed away from complications last night. The well rehearsed routines of village life already springing into action. Neighbouring farmers cleaning out pig pens and bringing in feed. A mass on Wednesday afternoon . " You will be there ? " asks the mayor. A wake in the Salle des Fetes afterwards. The mayor is unsettled. The farmers wife with some strange presentiment had phoned him from the ward before going into surgery to ask if there was a place for her in the cemetery. " There is but you won’t be needing it for twenty years " he replied. 

Back at The Rickety Old Farmhouse Sophie can be seen leaping in and out of the back of the builders van. She's carefully checking it to see if there are sandwiches on board.

The enduring rhythms of life in deepest, deepest France profonde. Small dramas too unremarkable for a diary but recorded here because they're too important to be totally forgotten.

The poissonnerie goes up in smoke.

Thunder storms overnight. Hot air from the Sahara battling it out with cool air from the Bay of Biscay. The cool air seems to have won. Shutters rattle, downpipes gurrgle, the power comes on, then goes off. The PONs snore obliviously away.

First thing this morning Bob and Sophie are ready for the off. At this early hour Bob looks merely shaggy. Sophie decidedly squiffy. The cafe under the arcades with its dog hating owner is still out of bounds so we visit the bakers. Some slivers of 'sacristan' for the angelic duo. A black cherry cake for us. Overcome with delight Bob is keen to tell the bakers wife that he loves her. He is quickly 'encouraged' out onto the street.

Next stop the fishmongers. Or it would be had it not burnt down on Friday afternoon. The traffic warden says there was an electrical fire. '' There were four fire engines " he adds in a tone of voice that makes it clear it was quite an event. The street now closed off to traffic. The only place that knew what lemon sole was and where to get it.

And here's some Sunday morning practical advice for travellers to America : http://foreignpolicy.com/2015/06/12/dont-make-jokes-about-bombs-and-no-nude-sunbathing-vacation-warnings-united-states/

Bob is less forgiving.

The storm passes us by. More pussy cat than tiger. The local villages are less lucky. Landslides, power outages, trees down. We get ten minutes of desultory rain, they get floods.

The red trousered kitchen designer texts to say that the new fridge will be delivered at seven in the morning. We take this with a pinch of salt. In deepest France profonde nothing ever gets delivered before eleven . Imagine our surprise when a white van rolls into the courtyard right on time. Bob and Sophie are overjoyed.

The delivery men don't want to carry the new fridge up to the kitchen . '' We're not paid to lift things ". Angus is temporarily taken aback by this but suggests they take the fridge back to the warehouse. The two men confer. They decide that as its only a short flight of steps they can after all carry it. This is when the problems start. The fridge is 2 centimetres wider than the door. After saying something remarkably rude the delivery men leave. A call is made to the kitchen fitter who says he'll get someone over next week to 'sort things out'. He's told to think again.

In the afternoon two carpenters arrive to widen the door. Bob and Sophie are keen to help. To save the carpenters sanity the PONs are imprisoned in the kitchen. Sophie accepts this incarceration with hopeful good grace. Bob is less forgiving. He wants to play throw the furry fox with the workmen. He howls with frustration. Why be indoors when you could be outside living life in the fast lane ?

This is so esoteric it makes for compulsive reading :http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/chronicling-los-angeles-history-menu-by-menu?intcid=mod-latest

The storm of the century ?

High excitement in deepest France profonde. The weather forecast calls for 100 km/h + winds and heavy hail. Outside the air already echoing with the sound of the thunder, the standard roses swaying drunkenly. A sign has gone up on the town hall noticeboard advising everyone to stay in 'at risk of inundation ' between ten tonight and three in the morning. Theatricality is woven into French life. 

The district nurse will drop off the key to the Very Old Farmers front door in our letter box after she visits him later tonight. We're to check on him after breakfast in case the roads are blocked. The local gendarme has been given our number. The red faced man with anger management problems has shooed the pre-teens off the village green with the words '' Don't you know there's a storm coming ? ". He waves his arms a lot. They sulk away. 

The well rehearsed routines of country life. 

The builders leave early. The garden an obstacle course of bins and buckets. The PONs think it's all wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

The daily PON blog delivered early while the power's still with us.

A wag of the tail.

At The Rickety Old Farmhouse the morose lads are applying a coat of plaster to the terrace ceiling. They will return tomorrow to apply a second layer. Then they'll disappear until such time as the stone for the terrace floors is delivered. 

The builders yard has the audacity to send a bill charging me for the time and transportation of the stone flooring to the incorrect address. They have the stone and I've paid for it. Later today I'll drive over to discuss the situation.

Sophie spends her morning trying to drink from the cement mixer. When that is put out of bound she turns her attention to a variety of vessels used to mix up plaster and concrete. 

The morose lads have learnt that it is best to keep their baguettes well hidden from the family princess. I do however catch a glimpse of each of them, in turn, giving her a small sample of their lunch. Sophie thanks them with a wag of her tail.

Unquenchable.

We're up and out by six. The stone for the terrace is due to be delivered by seven and the builders have promised to be here at seven thirty to start laying it.

At seven fifteen the phone goes. It's the driver from the company that's supplying the stone.'' I'm outside the church but can't see a house with grey shutters ". Still holding the phone I go out to the village green to show him the way.No truck. No driver. It's soon apparent that he's turned up in a village with the same name in a different departement.

The builders, who have meanwhile arrived en masse, stand in the flower beds, smoke cigarettes and a have a conference. There is much shrugging of shoulders. They announce that as they're here they'll finish off the plastering on the terrace and come back in two weeks when they have some 'free time ' . Re-delivery of the stone will need to be arranged.

The PONs take all this in their stride. For them a glorious day of 'throw the furry fox' with the morose lads lies ahead. When you're two years old the zest for life and mischief is unquenchable .

This made me smile : http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/jun/09/denied-nazis-worlds-oldest-doctoral-student-awarded-phd-aged-102

An age of miracles.

The weather is behaving itself. Hot and dry during the day. A mountain  storm to douse the garden late at night. On the lawn this morning a tiny birds nest blown down in the nightly gale. On closer examination it's proven to be made out of finely woven PON hair .

A mystery. On a street light outside The Rickety Old Farmhouse a strangely official sign has appeared. It points along the lane to 'Site 1'. The mayor knows nothing about it nor the Old Farmer. It appears to be the only one.

The builders van passes us on our morning walk. They stop to say they'll be starting work on the tiling tomorrow. This is indeed an age of miracles. 

A fellow teuchter.

Down in the valley the melon farmer has covered two hectares with plastic poly-tunnels. From up here on the ridge the end result looks quite architectural. It's as if a small ice glacier has taken root .

Off to the Supermarket with the PONs. Angus stays with them while 'The Font' shops.We park in a distant corner well away from any other cars . As is always the case when you want to be left alone it doesn't take long for someone to come and draw up alongside. Out gets a lady of a certain age in a bright red figure hugging spandex tank top and ground sweeping orange skirt. She spots the dogs. Before you can say 'Bobs your uncle' she's tapping on the back windscreen of the car with one hand and waving with the other. To add insult to injury she shouts out  'Cou-Cou Doggies! '. Bob is a fairly affable soul but having the window tapped by what appears to be a large talking wasp brings out the worst in him. He leaps at the back window, snarling at this unwarranted intrusion. Sophie joins in - her bark two octaves higher. The woman shouts out ' What bad dogs ' and wanders away. From time to time she casts reproachful glances back towards us. The back window of the little Skoda is smudged with nose marks.

'The Font' wonders aloud why in the space of twenty minutes things like this happen to Angus.

In this weeks Economist magazine a charming obituary for the Scottish politician Charles Kennedy. A fellow teuchter. When was the last time you saw a declamatory ( and correct ) 'O' being used rather than 'Oh' ? A truly archaic linguistic touch that gives the final sentence special warmth. 

"Yet for the many who mourn him, it is above all dreadfully sad, because he was delightful, and in fact this was the main reason for his success. He was, extraordinarily in politics, without malice. He was never, despite his remarkable precociousness, pompous. His jokes, which were frequent, were usually aimed at himself, the institution he served, or both.

Narrating a television documentary on the House of Commons last year, he glanced up, on camera, at a mosaic of St Andrew that towers over Central Lobby. The patron saint of Scots, he quipped, had been positioned to signal the way to the bar. Though he was a political insider—an MP at 23, for goodness sake—Mr Kennedy’s plain good humour always suggested he had a foot in that ruder soil, the real world, which matters most. And that, O politicians, is why he was loved ".

A drenching ?

Sunday morning. The bees already busily at work.  A sound of contented humming rises from the lavender beds. Bob is out in the courtyard with an old laundry bag. Sophie is in the kitchen hoping for an incident that involves breakfast being spilt on the floor. Outside in the village the Hungarian stonemasons are about to return to Lake Balaton. They've left  an ash tray full of cigarette butts and a small mountain of empty lager cans on the war memorial steps.

No builders. No electricians. No irate zingueriste. No kitchen fitters. Just a quiet Sunday morning. We're delighted. The PONs wonder where everyone is. 

For the PONs a day for playing in the irrigation systems water jets lies ahead. 

La voleuse.

Sophie waits patiently for the zingueriste to answer his mobile phone. Then, while he's distracted, she rushes up the terrace stairs quick as a flash and liberates his sandwich. Dog and sandwich disappear into the orchard. The zingueriste follows.

Sophie has now earnt the sobriquet 'La voleuse'. Other less endearing terms are also employed .

Is it possible she's registered the enormity of her crime ? 

PS : Word of advice to French workmen. No matter how fit you are you'll never catch a PON girl with a cheese and ham croissant in her mouth.

Joy overload.

At the cafe under the arcades it would seem that business is less than brisk. Not a soul to be seen. We hurry past en route to the bakers where the angelic duo are given some tiny pieces of meringue. Bob has one of his 'moments'. He moves in circles while simulataneously  showing his overbite and doing his soft shoe shuffle routine. The classic symptoms of PON joy overload.

At the hottest part of the day the red trousered kitchen designer arrives, unannounced. Angus wonders what the French use mobile phones for. Clearly not for setting up meetings. '' I've found the perfect stools for the kitchen. They're made by a little workshop in Rouen ".  ' Wonderful ' says Angus in what he hopes is a voice that denotes interest.

As the sun sets Bob and Sophie mount guard over The Rickety Old Farmhouse. It soon becomes apparent to Sophie that there is little to guard against . Bob is not so easily dissuaded. He sits on his stump seat until it's dark. A big brothers work is never finished.

A hot summers day in deepest , deepest France profonde.