A quiet day in France profonde. Sophie fixes me with her ' what are we going to do today ? ' look. Bob stands on his stump seat and guards.
The Old Farmer has left food for his cats in the venerable motor home. There's no need for a key to get in as the lock on the drivers door has rusted away. Three cans of cat food and three bottles of UHT milk. Angus is unsure whether this was designed to feed two cats or whether the Old Farmer had adjusted the quantities for the untimely demise of the cat that had fallen asleep under the wheels of his Peugeot.
Angus opts to give the cat a full can of Whiskas and a half bottle of milk. Cat seems quite happy with this compromise.
Angus sits on the doorstep next to Bob and phones men in dark suits . Sophie saunters past, turns on her back in the sun and falls asleep at my feet. Angus hopes the men in dark suits can't hear her snoring. Sophie snores like a trooper. The men in dark suits probably think I'm calling from a modern office in Paris. Little do they know.
Diesel with medals. A great photo.
Angus has to feed The Old Farmers one remaining cat.
Bob is unimpressed that Angus is spending time with a cat. He gives me a '' no good will come of it " look.
Sophie is more demonstrative in her views on the subject. '' You've done what ? "
An early evening walk across the village green with Bob and Sophie. By six o'clock the temperatures are falling rapidly. No frost yet but it's decidedly bracing. Bob and Sophie love the cold weather. They play savage my sibling on the grass and roll over and over and over.
Sophie watches Angus prepare dinner. She sighs.
In Paris it's 'Tous au bistrot' night. The restaurants full of slightly nervous customers out to show that life goes on. 'The Font' chooses a new restaurant that has been written up in Le Figaro and insists on sitting outside.The staff are of the trendy beard and piercings variety. Not just any beards but those Old Man and the Sea type beards that seem to have become all the rage. 'The Font', usually a Badoit drinker when dining alone, orders a half bottle of Chablis . A sign perhaps of the slight edginess in the atmosphere.
Don't know which is the more interesting. The article or the comments :http://www.lrb.co.uk/blog/2015/11/16/jeremy-bernstein/a-brief-history-of-the-bataclan/?utm_source=LRB+online+email&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=20151103+online&utm_content=ukrw_subsact&hq_e=el&hq_m=4031302&hq_l=13&hq_v=8fb6c251f8
Monsieur Bay and his two colleagues from the retired gendarmes association are on bus duty by the war memorial. We're greeted with a hearty '' Bonjour M'Ongoose. Bonjour Bhub. Bonjour Sofee ". At noon yesterday the three octogenarians observed a minutes silence by the war memorial.
Bob gets given a post walk rice cake . He holds it carefully in his teeth. Sophie tries to swallow hers to make room for another.
The Old Farmer sets off to Strasbourg in the ancient Peugeot. There is a court case concerning the yellow Mercedes lorry he sold to a man at an ' unbeatable ' price. It seems the man in Strasbourg is less than happy with his purchase.
As he drives away The Old Farmer reverses over one of his cats that has fallen asleep under the car. The result is not a happy one. The other cat circles plaintively.
At this less than opportune moment Loic, the heavily bifocaled gardener, arrives to blow leaves. He tells me a lengthy and possibly exciting story in his impenetrable accent. The PONs follow him round the garden unpiling leaves.
Angus digs a hole for The Old Farmers cat. When he returns to the house he finds 'The Font' waiting to head off to the airport. '' You're late today " says 'The Font'. ' I've just been burying a cat ' replies Angus. There is a sigh.
At the local 24/7 store ( well 8 til 8 on weekdays and 9 til noon on weekends ) there is a sign saying that due to the State of Emergency bags may be searched. The rather shy and retiring couple that run the store are unlikely bag searchers.
As a child in Scotland I can remember islanders wearing a black armband as a sign of bereavement. A tradition that's long disappeared. The local paper carries on a version of it with a black band in the corner on the top of the page.
So starts a Tuesday morning. Events too ordinary for a diary but too important to go completely unrecorded.
A national state of emergency in place and three days of national mourning. The village children hoped that school would be cancelled. It wasn't. To show his disappointment the annoying little tike that lives at the crossroads does his trick of rattling a stick against the metal bars on the gate. The rat-tat-tat noise causes the PON duo to howl. The little tike, delighted with the hullabaloo he's caused, skips down the lane dragging his satchel behind him.
Monsieur Bay and two of his colleagues from the retired gendarmes association are on duty to ensure that the 7.15 , 7.30 and 7.40 school buses collect their passengers without mishap. Cynics might wonder what use octogenarian gendarmes would be in an emergency . This misses the point. In French villages there are times when everyone does their duty - and wears their medals.
As we return from our walk we find the mayor clambering on top of a chair . He can't fly the flag outside the town hall at half mast so he's furling it with black crepe ribbon. Monsieur Bay is doing his bit to help by steadying the chair.
There is much for the Anglo-Saxon to find annoying about France but at moments like this there is much to love.
Just another Monday morning in deepest, deepest France profonde.
The PONs are waiting for their morning walk. They exhibit a silent ' What's keeping you ? ' impatience .
We stop off at the 'American' style burger place for a post walk cup of coffee. It's usually humming but this morning it's quiet. Bob doesn't mind 'humming' restaurants. Sophie does. As it's empty both PONs can join me without the danger of a 'diva' moment. The staff all come over to talk to the dogs. You can never be alone in France when you travel with canine companions. Bob adores the attention. Sophie remains aloof until a sliver of biscuit is profered.
Truffle flavoured crisps on sale at the check out. How chic.
A poster in a window of a children's clothing store makes me smile. A motto that could apply to any four year old or a PON princess.
The lady at the newsagents is so traumatised by events in Paris that she calls me 'tu' when I come to pay for the papers. It's only taken seven years.
In the afternoon the Sapeurs-Pompiers check that we're OK. Why anyone would think Djihadists would storm our little commune of 67 souls is beyond reckoning. They stay long enough for two middle aged firemen to play a five minute game of 'Throw the Furry Fox' in the orchard. Again, I'm reminded that dogs are an antidote for the worlds woes.
We go to bed in one world and wake in a different one. At 7.12 am on a misty Saturday morning the radio announcers still in a state of disbelief. One of those days that like 9/11 will stay rooted in the mind. 'The Font' due to fly to Paris on Tuesday mornings easyJet flight. Do we cancel ? Or do we continue , as we should and will ? Tears of joy from a friends wife who escaped unharmed.
An unallayed vision of loveliness appears in the morning room. It has brought with it a dead blackbird. This prize is deposited at its owners feet while he's tying his shoe laces. Gushing praise is expected in return.
On a morning like this the life goes on 'ordinariness' of dogs is a prize beyond measure.
This eyewitness account from this mornings FT is sensitively and well written :
Another misty morning. Bob clambers onto his stump seat and stares at two cats who saunter, unconcernedly, down the lane.
On breakfast radio a phone-in with the British Ambassador to France. He speaks French with accent less ease. The first question he's asked is what have the British ever done for Europe . This is batted back with reference to 1914 and 1939. After this the questions become less friendly. Angus decides that being an ambassador to France requires superhuman tact. It would seem that all problems - from the common cold to the refugee crisis - are the fault of perfidious albion.
Later in the morning Bob and Angus head off to the barbers. Bob moves to his spot under the sickly aspidistra and falls asleep. The talkative barber has won no less than nine holidays on radio quizzes. His next trip, with wife and daughter, is to the south of India in March. He adds, for good measure, that his wife doesn't like Indian food. '' Do you think they'll have French restaurants ? ". Angus is sure the hotel will have a coffee shop. This seems to satisfy him.
We stop off at the bakers. This year they are selling advent calendars. '' Do you make them yourself ? " I ask the bakers wife. ' Oh yes. My husbands always coming to bed with new ideas '. Unsure how to reply we buy one.
While 'The Font' engages in a webinar with the Pasadena astrophysicists Sophie plays stalk my brother . This involves Bob lying under the library table while his sister races round it at high speed. Every so often Sophie stops racing and pounces, cat like, on her brother. Rather like a cross between a canine version of musical chairs and a rugby match. Both PONs demonstrate their enjoyment by singing.
So passes another day in deepest, deepest France profonde with two happy dogs.
Bob arrives in the kitchen ready for the day to start. It's clear from the sodden paws and matted muzzle that he's already been chasing squirrels.
Sophie looks presentable.
Autumn mist for the Remembrance Service. We're supposed to start at 11.00 but it's 11.15 by the time the mayor has shepherded the villagers into position. The Old Farmer is there, a row of medals strung proudly across his brown knitted cardigan.
The mayor, dapper in his funeral suit, reads out the message from the President of the Republic. I strain to catch a few words but fail. Then the list of the village dead is called, '' Mort pour la France " intoned after each name.The mayors grandfather and uncle the first names read out. The youngest villager lays a wreath on the memorial. A minutes silence ,then the little lady in the purple hat sings the Marseillaise slowly and plaintively.
An invitation is extended to the mayor and his wife to join us for a glass of champagne. '' We couldn't possibly. Oh well. Perhaps the one ". Madame Bay, the lady with the beehive hairdo, the woman with unexpected triplets, the man in the yellow day-glo jacket , the lady in the purple hat , the tiler, the deputy matron from the Old Folks home, the Old Farmer and a variety of others follow along.
Bob circulates amongst the crowd in the hope of finding sausages. He's disappointed.
So passes another year in deepest France profonde. This 'The Font' notes to our mutual surprise is the seventh ceremony we've attended. Where has the time gone ?
Mornings with PONs are rarely quiet. Today is no exception. Sophie makes it plain to Bob that a pre-breakfast game of 'savage my sister' is not on the cards.
The mayor shows up at the front gate. '' Can I borrow your ladder ? I have to put the flags on the war memorial ". Angus watches while the mayor clambers up and arranges the tricolore for the Armistice Day ceremony. The old linen flags have been replaced by very lustrous nylon ones. Try as he might the mayor can't get the shield to hang straight. It leans slightly to the left. Two chrysanthemum plants are placed on the plinth.
Sophie stands on her hind legs observing events from The Rickety Old Farmhouses front gate. She yelps with frustration that things are being done without her involvement.
The Very Old Farmers son has started to clear out the house and burn papers. This strikes us as being somewhat 'gauche' considering the Very Old Farmer is still in residence.
In an old family diary the surprising discovery that on November 11th 1918 the crowds in George Street, Edinburgh marked the Armistice by singing the doxology. A spontaneous response to the kirk bells signalling the end of carnage. As the streets were filled with kilted Canadian, New Zealand and Scottish troops I'd assumed that the 11th hour would have been met with a riot of debauchery. Interesting that everyone knew the words. What would people sing today ? Difficult to find the doxology on You Tube but here's a very descanty Benjamin Britten arrangement - a snippet kicks in at the 4.34 mark : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34uo7bO3rQ4
It's been warm enough for shirt sleeves on our pre-breakfast walk. This morning a definite change. Clouds in the sky and a chill hint of winter in the air. Bob is up and about early. He's frustrated that his master is rummaging in the back of the car looking for a jacket. Sophie takes a little longer to surface. She's been sleeping on her right side and emerges with a fashionably lopsided look.
Bourbon makes an unexpected appearance in the aisles of the little supermarket. A Mint Julep , the advertising informs us, is the ancestor of the Mojito and an emblematic drink of the United States. What the local farmers will make of 'Bourbon Week' remains to be seen.
In the glazed lobby of the shopping centre we come across this little fellow.
Distraught at being left alone while his mistress shops he slumps ever lower. Polished stone floors do nothing for canine equilibrium. To show his unhappiness he howls. Not a Wolf like howl but a quiet blowing out of air. A noise not unlike Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs. This is at once both sad and highly amusing in the way that only dogs can be.
There are two sorts of people. Those who stop and chat to the dog and those who rush by oblivious. An unscientific observation would point to a 40-60 split.
Loic, the bifocaled gardener, blows leaves into piles. The PONs follow on behind. Loic seems oblivious to the chaos they're creating.
Sophie is of the view that a girl should be able to lie in the sun and relax after a bout of strenuous leaf rearranging.
However, in the real world there's the constant danger of being savaged by an oaf of a brother.
There again, what's the point of worrying about the inevitable ?
Sophie is up early to alert us to the fact that the farmer is back and has brought an even larger tractor with him. He parks the machine on the speed bump and tinkers with the plough attachment. He whistles as he does so. There is nothing quite like whistling to get a PON into high alert mode. Apart, that is, from banging a metal attachment with a spanner. This works just as well.The village wakes.
Sophie barks. Bob looks ferocious. Or as ferocious as he can look with Furry Fox in his mouth.
There is time for just a quick game of tug of war before we head into town.
Despite it being November two early rising American tourists can be seen in the market square. They are wearing identical white leather hats.They stand in the middle of the road, oblivious to the traffic, then stride purposefully off.
The beggar outside the market holds the door open for us. He tickles Bobs chin. Sophie avoids him. 'The Font' gives the young man a Euro coin. He has two friendly and well cared for dogs that he clearly loves and who love him back. Angus is always sniffy about giving to beggars. 'The Font' takes a ' who are we to judge ? ' approach.
Sophie, exhausted by such an exciting start to her day, falls inelegantly asleep in the sun.
So begins another Sunday in deepest, deepest France profonde. Events too unimportant for a diary but too important to go completely unrecorded.
