Bifurcated guarding.

Bright skies, gentle breezes and gaggles of cheerful pilgrims passing the gate. Bob sits on his stump seat and provides the inhabitants of The Rickety Old Farmhouse with a sure fire first line of defence.

His sister takes a less strenuous approach and basks in the morning sunshine.

'The Font' heads off to resolve some 'problems' at the wee house in Scotland.

At 8:35 the ladies of the women's cooperative arrive to continue with their decorating efforts. Two of them put up scaffolding while four chew tobacco and paint beams in the downstairs bedrooms. They talk constantly. The PONs find that much high speed charging up and down stairs is required. Bifurcated guarding.

The ladies of the Women Cooperative follow strange hours. They work until noon, take a three hour lunch break, return and then work solidly through to 8:00 when they abruptly disappear. They may return tomorrow if 'things work out'. Angus is not told what needs to be worked out so is none the wiser as to whether they'll be here.

The PONs stay on guard until the sun has set. 

In Scotland 'The Font' pops into the wonderful local bookstore where James Comey's new book is being unpacked. Perfect reading material when facing dinner alone in a noisy restaurant surrounded by students. A half bottle of unexceptional white wine a palliative for the long journey.

Wednesday morning esoterica. A Texan Godson was the first to draw my attention to the view that American foreign policy is shaped on religious lines. We are apparently in a Scots-Irish Calvinist phase as described here : https://www.firstthings.com/article/2018/05/the-theology-of-foreign-policy

and challenged here

: https://providencemag.com/2018/04/part-1-protestant-roots-of-usa-foreign-policy-divisions/

Aloof.

A guide to dog breeds informs me that Polish Lowland Sheepdogs are a placid breed with an 'aloof mien'.

You have to wonder if the author has ever met a PON .

Strides out.

Out with Bob along the lane. He strides out purposefully. We're accompanied by his shaggy shadow. A sure sign summer is nearly here.

Wild boar about this morning. Bob is kept on his lead. From time to time he turns around to make sure I'm still there. He does a reasonably good job at hiding his impatience.

A surprise at the crossroads. The first calves of the year lying sunbathing in the early morning warmth. Three, possibly four, of them being guarded by two rather proprietorial aunts. Bob demonstrates his bravery by moving behind Angus on the side away from the cows. He gives me his  '' You deal with them ! " look.

Off to the greengrocers for some pineapples. Sophie, who has spent the early part of the day staring at the roast pork in the kitchen, joins us. At the bakers she is delighted to discover that there are malformed croissant slivers that are still warm from the oven. Beat that if you can ! Clearly, this is the best day ever.

Wild gentians making an appearance on the verges.

Here's a portion of an eye opening article in this weeks Economist. Walmart for the casket and a whole new take on the phrase 'Pizzas to go ' :

''In North America the modern undertaker’s job is increasingly one of event-planning, says Sherri Tovell, an undertaker in Windsor, Canada. Among the requirements at her recent funerals have been a tiki hut, margaritas, karaoke and pizza delivery. Some people want to hire an officiant to lead a “life celebration”, others to shoot ashes into the skies with fireworks. Old-fashioned undertakers are hard put to find their place in such antics. Another trend—known as “direct cremation”—has no role for them at all.

Besides having to offer more diverse services, the trade also faces increased competition in its products. Its roots are in carpentry. “You’d buy an expensive casket and the funeral would be included in the price,” remembers Dan Isard, a funeral consultant in Phoenix, Arizona. The unwritten agreement was that the dead would be treated with dignity and that families would not ask if there was an alternative to the $1,000 or $2,000 coffin, or whether embalming was really needed. The business has something in common with prostitution, reflects Dominic Akyel of the University of Cologne. It is legal (as prostitution is in some places) but taboo, “and certainly not to be discussed or haggled over”.

The undertaker used to be able to rely on a steady stream of customers who asked few questions and of whom he (and it was usually a he) would ask few in return. Protestant or Catholic? Open coffin or closed? And, in some parts of the world, burial or cremation? A new generation of customers, though, no longer unthinkingly hands over its dead to the nearest funeral director. They are looking elsewhere, be it to a new breed of undertaker, to hotel chains that “do” funerals, or—for their coffin or urn—to Amazon or Walmart.

“It’s happening in restaurants, nightclubs, wedding venues, country clubs and it’s very dangerous,” Bill McReavy, an undertaker from Minneapolis, told his vigorously nodding peers at the annual gathering of the American National Funeral Director Association (NFDA) in Boston last autumn. The NFDA expects the industry’s revenue to stagnate between 2016 and 2021".

Electric unicycles.

Sunday morning. Sophie lets me know that she's being neglected.

For the last couple of days the angelic duo have had to put up with their master having long phone conversations with men in dark suits. This has required strict silence on the angelic duo's part. Silence is difficult for the PONs to maintain. Now the sturm und drang is done they can return to their natural, noisy routine. Angus tells Bob that one day, when all this is written down, people will be amazed. Thank heavens for the calming influence of Mattis, Macron and May.

Sunday starts with an enthusiastic high speed, high decibel tour of the garden to make sure that no c-a-t-s are present. Blackbirds are chased ineptly. Then it's time to be harnessed up, argue over who's going to get into the back of the car first and then head off to the greengrocers.

Fresh white asparagus, ceps and artichokes make their way into the shopping bag.

Back in the village the annoying tike's are up early. Someone has given each of them one of those electric unicycle scooters. Whirring slightly they progress up and down the lane laughing and giggling. Every so often one of the tike's falls off and the other laughs uproariously. The falling off happens frequently and in an egalitarian, equally shared way so there is lots of laughter. The one wheeled scooters do not meet with the PONs approval. Bob barks. Sophie shrieks.

Normal service has been resumed.


A new hotel where the French president had his 40th birthday : http://relaisdechambord.com/

and a soon to open hotel in Iceland that has taken 'The Fonts' fancy : http://retreat.bluelagoon.com/

And finally can it be true that American kids can't walk to the park alone ? : https://letgrow.org/free-range-kids-bill-signed-law-utah-first-nation/

On balance.

The builders are expected .... but don't show up. The electricians aren't expected but arrive in the courtyard in their van. The PONs greet these unexpected visitors enthusiastically. The Old Farmer wanders across the lane to tell the two electricians about his hip operation. '' It took two and a half hours. The doctor said my bones were as hard as iron. In fact he told me they were the hardest he'd ever known". As a reward for listening patiently the young electricians are shown his bandages. They leave.

The PONs come indoors. Bob dozes. Sophie looks for yogurt pots.

After half an hour of restorative calm they opt to go outside to zoom round the garden and bark at unsuspecting passers by.

Today there are no passers by. This is a disappointment.  As it's cool the PONs are loaded into the back of the car for a trip to the garden centre. The garden centre dog is a great friend but today he's nowhere to be seen.

An exploration of the garden centre tunnels is followed by a visit to the bakers. Sophie turns on the charm and is rewarded with a sliver of croissant. 

On balance what might have been a so-so day has probably turned into the best day ever. Croissant slivers have that effect.

Thank God for small voices and smiles.

A kind lady in America has sent some Jelly Beans and books to The Rickety Old Farmhouse. They are delivered in the morning post. On the way out of the door to Loics mothers funeral some small voice tells me to go back inside and pick up the bag of Jelly Beans. Thank God for still small voices. The Jelly Beans prove invaluable. Loic is clearly aware that something unusual has happened but  is unsure how to respond.

The bag of Jelly Beans keep Loic silently engrossed through the sermon - a tasty diversion that allows the funeral service to stay on track. The internment a sad although well attended affair. The officiating priest sets the tone by telling us that this is his eleventh funeral this week. He then goes on to add '' but it's no less beautiful for that ". 

After the service, sensing the kind words of well wishers are overwhelming him, Loic and I go to the cafe facing the church for a coffee. He has some vanilla and strawberry ice cream. He informs me ' Mummy's very tired but now she's happy '. I find myself agreeing. For what it's worth I tell him she was very proud of her strong, brave boy. On the retelling this seems saccharine and patronising but at the time seemed to be as honest and true a thing as has ever been said. Loic is also told he can drive the garden tractor the next time he comes to blow leaves. His broad smile lights up an otherwise drab day.

On our way home the phone rings. '' Could you come and pick me up ? " . It's The Old Farmer. He is ready to be discharged from the hospital. The surgeon has suggested that he go into a care home for a few weeks to recuperate. The Old Farmer has firmly ( and not so politely ) declined the offer.

In the afternoon Bob stands on his stump seat and watches as the venerable silver Mercedes heads slowly down the lane. Behind the wheel one glad to be home old man.

And so passes another day in a French village when 'nothing' happens.

Progress.

Another chill damp start to the day. The lawn squelches as you walk across it. The locals complaining about the wet weather. Talking about the weather is every bit as much a French trait as a British one. In fact , the longer you live here, the more you come to understand that the French and the Brits are rather like twins joined at the hip. Almost identical but determined to amplify their differences.

Bob and Sophie find these chill damp starts to their mornings wonderful. Bob and Sophie find most things wonderful. The hoover is an exception. So is the blender.

The builders return to repair holes in the genoise. They are told to avoid the wrens nests. The side of The Rickety Old Farmhouse they're working on has also become home to no less than five sparrows nests and what might be an owls nest. These are carefully left 'unrepaired'. The sparrows keep up a constant racket. The morose boys mix cement - morosely. The builders plan to do one side of the house every day. They don't say whether this will be done consecutively.

Later this morning we shall change into funeral attire and head off to the church for Loics mothers internment. The mayor tells me there was a time that Downs Syndrome children weren't encouraged to go to funerals because it was felt they were incapable of feeling grief. This was in an age when they were more likely to die before their parents. 


Shuttered shops on Broadway. Is this really unusual ? https://nypost.com/2018/04/07/the-worlds-hottest-shopping-city-is-becoming-a-ghost-town/?utm_source=twitter_sitebuttons&utm_medium=site%20buttons&utm_campaign=site%20buttons

Letting the air in.

The builder shows up at 8:30 . He greets me with a slightly distant air which hints at the fact that he'd prefer to be doing almost anything else other than fitting M'Ongoose's new garage doors. I tell him the doors are 'magnifique' which seems to cheer him up a little. The morose lads stand in the flower beds and smoke. Bob monitors them for signs of trouble. Under his withering gaze they remain resolutely morose.

A phone call as Sophie is heading across the village green for her post breakfast promenade. It's the matron of the home where Loic, the heavily bifocaled gardener, stays. His mother has died. The funeral is tomorrow. Loic would like us to be there. We're not sure how much of what is going on Loic understands. The matron says he's been told and is coping well. This probably means he's been given the standard saccharine lines  ' Mummy's with the angels. She'd want you to be brave '. Although well intentioned this may or may  not be the conversation best suited to one of Gods happy ones.

By the time we get home the garage doors are in place and the old ones taken away. The builders lads have ripped the hinges out of the wall. This has done nothing for the brickwork but it is  - in a sense - progress.

The Old Farmer has spent an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon with the hospital physiotherapist learning to walk with his new hip. He is champing at the bit to get home. The Belgian lady, who has been in Liege for Easter, returns. We know she's returned because she spends her day scurrying round The Old Farmers house in what appears to be a tiger skin leotard. '' Just letting some air in " she says contentedly ( and unselfconsciously ) as she flings wide a balcony window. She also Spring Cleans the venerable Ford Transit motor home.

Just another day in a small French village when 'nothing' happens.


Never eat a Carolina Reaper Pepper :http://www.tampabay.com/news/nation/He-ate-the-world-s-hottest-pepper-and-landed-in-the-hospital-with-thunderclap-headaches_167175509

Why bother about the weather ?

Above The Rickety Old Farmhouse a cold front from Russia battles it out with a warm front from the Sahara. Lightning flashes, thunder rolls, rain cascades down, the wind wails . Bob pops out quickly for his late evening 'comfort break'. He soon returns. His sister, oblivious to the elements, is in one of her sniff every flower moods. No quick garden outing for her. She demonstrates complete indifference to her masters increasingly urgent calls to come inside. After twenty minutes she is found sitting in the orchard watching the electrical storm arc across the sky. She is 'encouraged' inside.

This morning the builders are due to arrive to fit the new garage doors. They were originally scheduled to be installed in early September but the builder had to reschedule. Various excuses followed. It then became a " Don't worry M'Ongoose ! We'll have them fitted by Christmas '' item. Here we are in mid-April a mere seven months late. 

Within minutes of posting the blog this morning the first comment arrives.  Some malevolent bot has sent a vulgar anti-semitic diatribe. It's brimming over with violence and vitriol. Venomous obscenity in twenty bullet points. What it's doing coming to a dog blog in France is beyond comprehension. I don't think I've ever seen a expression of such undiluted evil. How did it manage to worm its way into the comments ?  To get the day back on track I go and have a second shower.

By contrast this is intriguing : https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/orangutans-use-plant-extracts-to-treat-pain1/

How is it kept there ?

A busy time ahead.

The builder is expected to come and replace the unattractive garage doors with better looking glazed doors on Tuesday. The builder has not replied to e-mail messages or phone calls since he made this promise a month ago.

The Old Farmer phones 'The Font' three times with updates on his progress. The hospital has him out of bed on Sunday morning doing walking exercises. He plans to be out of hospital and back at home this week. 

The Women's Cooperative call to say that they have recovered from their colds and will resume papering on the 17th.

At the open air market a lady with the most extraordinary hair. She's taken it and wrapped it around her head not once, not twice but three times. How long can it be ? The end result makes it look as if she's got a small but very tall hat perched precariously on top of her. Angus would really like to take a closer look to determine whether it's real or a wig but not wanting to appear in a French court case he decides against further investigation. The lady with the bizarre hair picks up oysters and talks to them. '' You look lovely my darling ". This makes Angus and the PONs move quickly away. Over breakfast 'The Font' voices the opinion that her behaviour is no stranger than a man sitting on a storm drain discussing the May 12th deadline on the Iran nuclear deal with two shaggy dogs.

We go to a new cafe. The coffee is burnt and undrinkable. It's hard to find a bad coffee in Italy. The same cannot be said about rural France. The PONs get given a bowl of water. The cakes look excellent. We may go there again if the staff can be trained in the art of the canine half croissant.

At the greengrocers mini aubergines. Angus want to ask what you might use mini aubergines for but the greengrocer, his wife and the disinterested girl who works there part time, are nowhere to be seen. We finally give up waiting and leave.

Strong winds and constant rain bring out the snails. They munch happily away on the freshly planted Aubretia. Anything that's willing to be out in the constant downpour has my blessing. Let the snails chomp away to their hearts content.

Sophie is much easier to towel dry now she's sporting her summer cut.

3 things for a Monday morning :

Only now have we discovered puffin beaks are fluorescent :

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/newfoundland-labrador/puffin-beaks-flouresce-1.4607386

How things will change in the US: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpEAyCPFB4g

There was a poetry festival in St. Andrews last month. Scroll a quarter way down the page to find a very powerful poem 'The Reception Line' by an American poet Lyn Coffin. 'The Font' says it was electrifying when read aloud  : http://www.stanzapoetry.org/festival/poets-artists/coffin

Calm.

The Old Farmer is recovering from his hip operation. The hospital doesn't know when he'll be allowed home but he is apparently in good spirits despite the pain.

In the afternoon The Very Old Farmer has a birthday gathering. It is literally a gathering. He sits in his wheel chair in the porch of his house. A few villagers gather on his driveway. The little lady in the purple hat sings 'Bon anniversaire a toi'. Madame Bay has made a cake which is largely whipped cream. '' It's easier for him to eat ". The wind blows at 60 mph which makes conversation difficult and eating whipped cream off a paper plate even more so. The Very Old Farmer tells Sophie she's beautiful. She wanders into the hallway and re-emerges with a slipper. The two tikes provide an atonal birthday fanfare on their trombones which The Very Old Farmer seems to enjoy. 

The mayor and his grand daughter spend the rest of their afternoon weeding the centre of the roundabout. I am silently thankful for the mayor who does so much without thanks.

The German billionaire has returned - or is about to return. A fleet of Mercedes vans with side curtains can be seen in the chateau car park. Workmen can be seen busily making the driveway pristine. 

En route to the greengrocers our progress is delayed by a farmer in a tractor who is completely oblivious to our presence. The idea that there may be a car behind him something that never enters his head. After 5 miles at 16 mph he turns off.

A sign on the motorway saying that because of the rail strike people should consider car sharing. Or, it would say that if only the pixels on the screen were working. Instead there are a puzzling collection of letters which hint at this solution. This week the railways, Air France and the local supermarket are continuing their walkouts.

Processionary Caterpillar time. Dangerous for dogs. The hardware store now selling pheromone traps to attract the critters.

The little things about French village life too unimportant for a diary but too important to go completely unrecorded.


Little is known about Agnes Richter but she ( unintentionally ) made great art : https://ridiculouslyinteresting.com/2011/09/06/agnes-richters-embroidered-straightjacket/

Sunday morning beauty :

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2Q9HiiRtEc

The pursuit of happiness.

In the hectic life of a PON Saturday ( like every other day ) is a day set aside for being happy. 

It's a day for rolling in the swathes of wild flowers that line the lane ....

..... and sitting on the storm drain while taking in the view, enjoying ear tickles and PONdering world affairs .

There will soon be a trip to the bakers for some croissant slivers. This will be followed by a lengthy nap. The pursuit of happiness while simultaneously guarding the flock and greeting passing pilgrims looks easy but can be exhausting.

............................................................................................

The secret code : https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/library-mystery-scotland-old-people-books

And a piece of music where the cello and bass are used as a drum. The lead violinist seems very enthusiastic : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC2oaSAToRE

And finally an American lady who makes embroidery art : http://www.ruthmillerembroidery.com/gallery.html