Bob is ambivalent about having visitors. They interrupt his routine. This judgement is balanced by the belief that the 'incomers' will dispense food from the table.
Sophie is altogether less enamoured with having strangers in the house. They are on the receiving end of her '' What noisy oafs ! " look. This aloofness lasts until a college boy shares some of his pecorino covered gnocchi at lunchtime. Her aloofness quickly vanishes and is replaced by grudging acceptance.
Both PONs are currently engaged in educating the Eurail set in the intricacies of how to throw the furry fox.
So passes a summers day in deepest, deepest France profonde.
The night of cinema en plein air. A comedy about a sophisticated Parisian who is sent to run a branch of his company in rural France, loathes it, then in the closing moments discovers that there is nowhere better on earth than being among good God fearing country folk. As with all movies of this genre there is the scene where the snooty wife finds the cleaning lady making tripe in the kitchen and storing turkey gizzards in the pantry, the teenage daughter falls in love with the neighbours handsome but unsophisticated and therefore unsuitable son and the parish priest is forever calling in search of funds for the church roof and 'accepting' a glass or two of the Parisians best champagne. There is also much gratuitous passing of wind.
The villagers ignore the action on the screen and gossip, argue, cook sausages and imbibe. The French teachers Labrador's snore away, the Jack Russell's run riot, errant three year olds create havoc, the screen blows over in the breeze and the reel of film breaks - twice. A great time is had by all - including Bob and Sophie.
At 1:03 am The Old Farmers ancient motor home rattles into life ( waking Bob and Sophie ) and he heads off on his journey to Vilnius via Strasbourg, Berlin and Warsaw.
On our morning walk we find a lady setting up display of artisinal hats. We think of asking if we can take a picture but we always get shouted at by hat ladies. Instead we take a surreptitious photo while her back is turned. We notice she's wearing a lilac linen tie dyed coat with pink trimmings.
Bob and Sophie are moved quickly past the Moroccan bag ladies and their wares. This is to ensure that Bob isn't tempted to christen them. At the bakers we collect a tray of pastries. Tonight the American Eurail boys retrace their steps homewards ahead of the new semester. In readiness 'The Font' cooks a kilo of bolognaise sauce. Bob and Sophie refuse to move from the kitchen.
And finally this video of a mad bulldog which is interesting on so many different levels , not least for the running commentary: https://www.youtube.com/watch?t=14&v=tGiKYlN0pDM
A day of high excitement.15 children from the local school are being allowed to talk 'live' with a Russian astronaut on board the Space Station. Each is allowed to ask one question - in English. At first light 'The Font' heads off with a very carefully tutored village eight year old and his proud ( but non-English speaking ) mother.
Angus, abandoned, goes with Bob and Sophie for a walk by the river.
Down a quiet side street we discover a dog loving cafe. The Sunbeam. Or, to be more precise 'Le Sunbeam'. Completely deserted. Sadly, there are no croissants but there is a bowl of water and a friendly greeting from a middle aged lady dressed entirely in lace. Perhaps the lace lady can be trained in the art of serving breakfast bakeries ?
A detour to the canal for Bob to christen the pleasure boats . Must be high season. The boats are double parked. Bob takes great delight in his walk.
Back in the village The Old Farmer is readying the venerable Ford Transit motor home for a trip to Belarus. The weather here, having been scorchingly hot and dry, has suddenly become changeable. Rain one minute, blue skies the next. The chill is not to our old neighbours liking.
After tonight's cinema en plein air the octogenarian traveller will fire up his conveyance and head off. '' I should be back in a month ". He also informs me that he has linked the sensor on his security light to the Christmas decorations that run around his gutter. Now if there are prowlers the place will light up like Coney Island on the 4th of July.
'The Font' returns. The eight year old was overcome by the enormity of the moment and forgot his English. The Russian had an accent straight out of central casting. Mutual incomprehension reigned. Despite this Tower of Babel confusion everyone seemed to enjoy themselves including the mother who wept ( copiously ) with pride.
A cool morning.
A branch that's blown down in the overnight storm.
When life's this good why run when you can fly ?
Everything's perfect with the exception of a kibble stealing sister who's having a bad hair day.
Just another quiet (ish) Saturday morning in deepest, deepest France profonde.
Sophie has fully recovered from her 'indisposition'. ( We're leaning towards a dead bat being the cause of the theatricals ). This morning she picks up her harness, carries it into the hallway and drops it on the ground. In case I've not fully understood that it's walk time she then sits and glares at me. That full on PON ESP treatment.
The little market town is hosting a science summer school. One of the worlds leading mathematicians arrives and takes a seat by the door of the cafe that serves coffee that tastes like liquid rust. He's wearing an electric blue cravat. One of those pieces of neck wear you thought had died out in 1860. He's clearly a flamboyant mathematician, if that's not a contradiction in terms. He proves to be quite famous http://www.newyorker.com/tech/elements/cedric-villani-france-famous-mathematician-birth-theorem
Sophie makes it clear that as she didn't have dinner or a bedtime treat she should start the new day with a double helping of kibbles. She is disappointed. She is even more disappointed to discover that her brother won't share his breakfast with her.
'The Font' and Bob head off for a power walk round the lake. Sophie stays at home. Bob, is a cheerful 'Hello' sort of dog. Sophie is less receptive to strangers. She's more of a ' You're not my family. Don't come near me ' sort of girl.
Master and family princess set of on a long walk. Down the ridge to the stream, past the waterfall, then onto the lake. Bob is a rapid walker. Sophie is a reflective ' let me sniff this one more time in case I can eat it ' type of companion. A walk that usually takes forty minutes stretches to an hour and a half.
Afterwards we head off to the fancy cafe by the canal. Sophie gets not one but two biscuits. The waiter and the kitchen staff talk to her. The diva pretends not to be interested in all this attention and stares resolutely at her feet.
Sophie refuses her food. This is the first time in two and a half years she hasn't wolfed down what's been put in front of her. Eyes bright, nose wet but lethargic and drinking lots and lots of water. Perhaps the heat on our seven am walk was too much for her ? More probably she's been out in the garden digging up bulbs and then eating them. She even looks glum.
So passes another quiet summer day in deepest, deepest France profonde.
The rain has gone. The onset of dry weather meets with the approval of the PON duo who can once again head across the fields to the waterfall. From the enthusiastic snorting and pawing of the ground it can safely be assumed that the waterfall has recently had a visit from a herd of deer.
In the supermarket a display of lab coats. Perhaps it's to do with the start of the new school year ? Or perhaps not.
Pumpkins also make an appearance on the vegetables shelves much to the delight of the older customers who detect the onset of autumn.
At the frozen food store a new range of ice creams. This Lebanese example meets with the PONs enthusiastic approval.
Four carloads of holiday makers proceed through the village in convoy. Clearly lost. Later three motorbikes come rasping through at high speed. This generates a PON cacophony. The mayor and The Old Farmer have a lengthy chat about the organization of the upcoming 'cinema en plein air'. Bob observes them from his stump seat. An afternoon spent playing ' throw the furry fox'. All in all Bob and Sophie have had a day of breathless excitement. The ice cream was the highlight. Or was it furry fox ?
And for those of you who live in France or Italy :
All is well with the world. I get up , start to open the shutters and am immediately joined by two eager observers.
A wet nose presses against my leg just in case I'm unaware of her arrival.
Now that we're all up and about Bob wonders if this might be a good time to do some rug surfing. Angus suggests that a quick trip outside might be a wiser or certainly more prudent alternative. Sophie lets out her trademark high pitched double yelp as she races out of the front door. This morning there are squirrels, blackbirds and a large white cat to be chased. Furry fox is rescued.
It's barely six thirty but can a day get any better ?
Those little routines with dogs too unimportant to warrant being recorded in a diary but too important to be totally forgotten. The halcyon days of summer.
More rain. Sophie settles down with an empty yogurt pot. She uses full force PON ESP to instruct it to refill itself. After an hour of being glared at the yogurt pot remains resolutely empty.
Sophie thinks yogurt pots are stupid. She trots off to savage her brother. No point in wasting an entire day.
The weekend papers lead with stories about the record drought. This is a cue for rain. Not just any rain but a months worth in four hours. Repeated in the afternoon. And then again in the evening. A battleship grey day when you intone the phrase '' the garden needs it ".
Bob and Sophie's coats absorb twice their body weight in water. They then come inside and shake themselves dry in the kitchen. 'The Font' sighs and mutters something about the benefits of short haired dogs. Between downpours Bob stands on his stump seat and guards. Sophie looks ferocious ,or her approximation of ferocious, at the front gate.
The culture section of Le Figaro informs its readers that Britain comes to a halt every evening at 7.30 so its citizens can watch Coronation Street. Amazing what you learn about a country when you no longer live there.
Here's something that made me smile. A farewell blog from the British Ambassador to the Lebanon; returning home after 4 years. The last seven paragraphs as intense and personal as you can get - for a diplomat. A year ago an ambassador writing a phrase like '' Shine on you crazy diamond " on an official website would have been considered de trop. The advice to younger Lebanese politicians ' You can't just party and pray over the cracks ' a most un-ambassadorial example of talking truth to power. http://blogs.fco.gov.uk/tomfletcher/2015/07/31/19389/
Thunderstorms around. The humidity does nothing for Sophie's hair. Six am and it's already one of those ' I can't do a thing with it ' days.
Amid a riot of tail waving and excited whimpering brother, sister and master get in the car and head off to the little market town. Perhaps the baker or cheese lady will have something to ease Sophie's pain ?
The church clock chimes seven. The only other noise the yodelling song of the wood larks. One of those heavy mornings when it's good to have four legged companions leading the way and lending encouragement. On the path Sophie discovers three over ripe figs. She wolfs them down before I can say '' No ! ". What the effect ripe figs will have on her digestive system we shall discover as the day progresses.
Silence until ten to eight. Then it's the morning rush hour. The school secretary in her new Renault rushes by to supervise the repainting of the classrooms. The man with the garden machinery store heads off in his Mitsubishi in the other direction. The Old Farmer opens his creaky shutters. The mayor drives past towards the town hall, remembers that it's closed for the secretary's holiday, turns the hubcapless Renault in the car park and heads off home. The silence returns.
There are however exceptions to the silence. These come with four paws , look shaggy and are enthusiastic advocates of playing 'throw the furry fox'.
Another 40 degree day. There's a change in the weather this year. It's much hotter than usual. The refreshing, regular as clockwork, nightly downpours replaced by sudden torrents once every two or three weeks. The garden looking highly stressed. We'll lose half a dozen acers to the relentless heat. Only those in full shade will survive the scorching. Global warming ? Or just an errant year ?
Bob, of course, is completely untroubled by any of this. Every day is just perfect.
The Old Farmer returns at 3.30 in the morning. The sound of the 1980's era Peugeot sputtering to a halt briefly wakes us. The PONs slumber on oblivious.
After a restorative doze the old fellow wanders over to tell us about his adventure. 513 kilometres each way. The journey conducted on back roads. The venerable Peugeot not designed for motorway cruising. He's bought two cases of wine for himself and two for us. '' They only have cardboard cases. Can't get the people to make the proper wooden ones " he informs us somewhat sniffily.
The sunflowers coming to an end. One last field at the edge of the village waiting to be harvested.
Another very quiet summer day in deepest, deepest France profonde.
