A Republican Baptism.

Brother and sister wait with ill concealed impatience while their master looks for their leads.

Sophie has two modes of walking. The agonizingly slow ' stop and sniff every flower ' mode and the ' Let's get a move on ' mode. Today we're in supra fast ' Let's get a move on ' mode. She has a whole world to explore.

On our way back from the morning walk we see a crowd gathering outside the church. The eldest son of the drainage engineer, Monsieur Bozo, is having his new born baptized. Being practical folks the ceremony is scheduled for a Monday morning when everyone is en route to work. The mayor, accompanied by his wife, is officiating. For the great event he is wearing his perma-press crimplene trousers, dark green 'shimmery' shirt and blazer. He is also sporting his red plaid pork pie hat. A tricolour sash completes the formal attire. The little Bozo is being welcomed into the village community in style. The Godparents are told they must '' contribute those indispensable qualities which will let him become a citizen devoted to the public good and respect for liberty ". Amen to that.

The ceremony is in the town hall but then the proud parents walk across to the church porch where a large conch shell has been filled with water .The mother holds the infant while a procession of aunts, uncles, friends and neighbours scoop water into their hands and dribble it on the bairns head. He kicks but doesn't scream at the indignity. This is one of life's innocently happy rituals. A puddle of water on the porch floor marks the spot where the water was poured and the wee fellow was, for a moment, the axis on which the universe turned. 

After everyone has gone I see the mayor reversing the little Renault up to the front door of the town hall. His wife hobbles out bent nearly double. With no one looking she seems tired and frail and in pain - not the laughing figure seen at the baptism. Madame Bay tells me she's had five hip operations but this number may suffer from village story inflation. Three seems more probable. The mayor helps her into the car and, unaware that anyone is looking, plants a kiss on her cheek and strokes her hair. Her presence beside him another of life's small victories.

At the bakers the cake selection is improving. So is the service. A bowl of water, ear tickles and croissant slivers are delivered to our table on the terrace. Bob gives the waitress his '' I really love you '' look. Sophie, being a diva and an altogether more exalted form of existence than her brother , takes it for granted.

So starts a happy new week in deepest, deepest France profonde. There are good people here.

Asian hornets, toxic gas and vintage cars.

Evening in the village. A gentleman and his wife park their white van outside the church and unload a variety of hoses and containers from the back. The man and woman, now wearing gas masks, shout muffled and unintelligible things at each other while pushing a corrugated hose high into a chestnut tree.The mayor arrives in his little Renault and chases away some village children who are intrigued by this strange activity.

The Old Farmer wanders out to see what is going on as does Monsieur Bay and two of his colleagues from the retired gendarmes society. They talk to the mayor. The husband and wife team continue to shout at each other while pushing the hose ever higher into the tree. Amidst all this two flatbed trucks arrive. Each has a vintage Mercedes on the back to be delivered to the German billionaire. The drivers circle the war memorial, pause to watch the strange  movements of the gas mask wearing couple and park by the village hall.

It seems there is an Asiatic Hornets nest in the tree. The hornets don't so much eat the local bees as decimate them. They have been known to kill humans. The couple in the white van are professional Asiatic Hornet killers - which must make for a limited social life. At sunset when the insects are dozy they pump the nest full of toxic gas. This explains the hose pipe arrangement - and the gas masks.

Asiatic hornets, cyanide gas, overly inquisitive six year olds and vintage cars. So passes a Saturday evening in a French village where nothing ever happens. Bob and Sophie have mightily enjoyed the show from the safety of the stump seat. As they settle down for the night their tails whack against the tiles on the hallway floor.

Better and better .

A tummy rub for Sophie and a quick game of 'Throw the Furry Fox' for Bob. Harnesses are put on. This is the cause of much excitement. We go to see the cows at the crossroads and the donkeys at the end of the ridge. 

Soon we'll be off to the bakers for croissant slivers. The day just keeps on getting better and better.

Saw this and stopped what I was doing.

Started to cut the lavender along the drive. Filled five barrow loads before I saw this.

A good enough reason to stop and head inside. Spiders don't bother me but bright yellow ones with black stripes are probably saying 'stay well clear '.

The days shorter now. Our morning walk that started at 5:30 now delayed until the half light at 6:30. In a few weeks we'll set off at 7:00. Where did the summer go ?

After 45 years this band is retiring :  https://www.scotsman.com/news/runrig-hail-fans-ahead-of-farewell-shows-in-front-of-50-000-people-1-4785422
A song popular at rugby matches. Angus once heard it sung - word and accent perfect - in a bar near Lake Burton in Georgia ( or was it Tennessee ? ) by some locals who clearly still considered themselves Celts  : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pzQ1pNfbe3Q

French chic ?

Sophie has a drink from the old zinc bath by the pottery kiln. She then offers her master a slobbery kiss. The family diva only ever offers kisses after drinking a) stagnant water, b) yogurt c) putrid sludge or d) gravy. Why is this ? 

We fill the Volvo with petrol. The tank is barely half empty but still takes 89 Euros worth which causes Angus to mutter under his breath. While waiting to pay he has a chance to study the goods for sale in the display case by the cashiers desk. It is difficult to decide whether the collection of novelty thimbles ...

..... or the diamante encrusted pink plastic Eiffel Towers are the more interesting. Do they qualify as French chic ? 

British blog readers may ( or may not ) find this topical and amusing :  https://youtu.be/svwslRDTyzU

Pure vocal joy.

Our day starts, as every day with PONs starts, enthusiastically.

We wander round to see the Very Old Farmer. Despite the early hour the district nurse is there.  She comes at seven to get him up, returns at noon to oversee his lunchtime medicine  and is back at eight to make sure he's safe for the night. In between the meals on wheels lady and the housekeeper pop in to keep him company. This, the matron at the old folks home tells me, is 60% more cost effective than having him come into the residence. ' And he's much happier being in his own home ' she adds.

Sophie stands at the gate and is decidedly miffed that she can't get to see the old man. Our fiercely independent diva rather enjoys the tickles she gets.  His tone of voice when he sees her is not dissimilar to pure vocal joy. The restorative power of dogs should never be underestimated.

In the greengrocers peppered cashews appear alongside the curried variety. We buy some raw cashews for a curry. They need to soak for six hours but they end up tasting like chicken.

The PONs are oblivious to the fact that we're at the bakers early. The cakes still being made. There are however croissant crumbs. a bowl of water and ear scrunches.

Doves, pigeons and egrets busy searching for food amid the corn stalks in the field across the road. The PONs get out of the back of the car, see the interlopers and charge. The birds fly to one corner of the field followed by their four legged pursuers. Bob is wearing his '' that showed them who's boss ' face when he comes back home. The birds seem quite unconcerned.

So starts the best day ever.


Things to make you think on a Wednesday morning : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCOFYFDLWic

Some storm.

In the wee hours a huge and unexpected storm. The temperature plummets, the wind blows, torrential rain descends from the heavens and thunder shakes the old house to its foundations. 

We come downstairs this morning to discover that the wisteria has been ripped off the front of The Rickety Old Farmhouse ...

... and in the hallway a mirror has fallen off the wall and is lying on the floor. It's knocked over a lamp, which has landed on a chair . The lamp is intact as is the the mirror frame but the glass is in shards. You'd have expected Bob and Sophie to howl as all this excitement unfolded but they seem to have decided that the nights events were just 'one of those things'. 

The PONs watch as we repair as much of the damage as we can. The wisteria is so heavy I'll need to get the builders in with a fork lift truck. The builders are of course on holiday for all of August. Glass shards are gingerly picked up and put in a thick cardboard box for transport to the waste recycling plant.  '' Must have been some storm '' says 'The Font' who has slept through it. '' Must have been " says Angus. After all the excitement the PONs opt for a lengthy doze on the stoop.


On the news this morning we're told Aretha Franklin is ill. Here she is singing Nessun Dorma in New York many years ago: https://youtu.be/B1WT8lvN3kM?t=83

Curried cashews.

A stormy night but this morning the ground's dry and the PONs are ready for a new day. Around midnight the lawn was covered in hail. It lasted all of twenty seconds before melting but lit by the lightning it was a wonderful sight. 

Sophie receives ( and objects to ) her morning kiss from Bob.

Through the sunflower fields to the stream. The weather forecast seems to indicate that the extreme heat is now behind us. This will be a relief to both the human and four legged inhabitants of The Rickety Old Farmhouse.

A reasonable collection of cakes at the bakers this morning. Even better the PONs get croissant slivers, a bowl of water and hair tousles from the regular staff. Bob is told he's handsome. Sophie fidgets and squeaks with impatience.

Curried cashews at the greengrocers. 'The Font' claims not to like them but some claims can safely be disregarded.

So starts a Monday morning with Polish Lowland Sheepdogs. Mundanities too unimportant for a diary but too much part of life to go completely unrecorded.

A very Spanish rendering of a piece of music by Charpentier. It must be the high point of the drummers year  : https://youtu.be/WFThaphw5Ys?t=91

A zest for life.

Bob finishes his breakfast yogurt and is out of the door and into the back of the car at double quick time. Bob has a zest for life that is remarkable.

Angus has trimmed Bob's muzzle. It's just as well the family fellow doesn't understand that the hair on one side is longer than the other. 

At the greengrocers a collection of artisanal lemonades. Lychee, Candy Floss and an alarmingly blue Glacial Mint all on offer..... and easily ignored. Angus wonders if you could tell the difference in a blind tasting.

On the shelf below a solitary bottle of Violet lemonade. Definitely not a taste to be conjured with before eight am.

There is also an interesting book on all you need to know about bicarbonate of soda.'A miracle ingredient for the home and your health'. 

This took 4 days to build. The construction unions are not happy although the Berkeley students , presumably, are  : https://www.berkeleyside.com/2018/08/02/prefab-housing-complex-for-uc-berkeley-students-built-in-four-days

Little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness.

It rains. I catch myself saying to 'The Font' over breakfast : ' The garden needs it '. Another sign I've turned into my father.

The mother of the man with anger management issues is up early and painting her shutters Cornforth White. The same colour as those at The Rickety Old Farmhouse. I consider asking her why she's decided to paint the woodwork on a rainy day but think better of it. Her husband has recently been diagnosed with something serious.  She copes with worry through hyperactivity and feigned cheeriness. For some unconnected reason Wordsworth's line : ''The best portion of a good man's life - his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness " springs to mind.

We spend some time observing the foals and their mothers in the field at the edge of the village. The foals are keen to observe Bob and Sophie. Bob and Sophie are less keen to meet the foals. The brave duo stand behind me as a dozen horses stare at them. The PONs set off for home at a rapid pace. Bob turns from time to time to look back and make sure the horses aren't following us. I suggest that this is not a behavioural pattern associated with a ferocious guard dog. He glances at me briefly as if to say '' Did you see the size of them ? "

Two teenage boys wander along the lane. They come from Paris for two weeks every year to stay with their relations in the village and get away from the big city heat. When they were younger the boys lit fire crackers on the village green and used to tease the PONs as they did wheelies on their bikes over the speed bump by the gate. The sort of things teenage boys do. Sophie has neither forgotten nor forgiven. She throws herself at the gate like a dervish and makes it quite clear they come close at their peril. The two boys sensibly cross to the side of the lane away from the house and eighteen inches of snarling diva.

Just another start to a Saturday in deepest, deepest France profonde. A record of those things too unimportant to go in the family diary but too much part of life to go completely unrecorded.

You took your time.

Sophie chases across the village green after a cat. Following a tense 'standoff' with the hissing intruder she gets her head wedged between the town hall railings and a flower pot. There is an almighty 'howling'. 

After being freed the family diva gives me her '' You took your time " look. The cat is long gone.

So starts a Friday morning in deepest, deepest France profonde.

Just another day.

Sophie is snoring like a trooper when I tiptoe downstairs. She wakes and joins me in the kitchen. This morning the family diva suffers a joy overload. Her feet move up and down like pistons, her tail wags like an overwound metronome and her whole body sways from side to side. She emits weird rising and falling wailing noises. One happy lady. This is definitely going to be the best day ever. Angus tickles her chin and tells her she's the prettiest PON girl in France. The wailing and tail wagging step up a notch as she absorbs this news.

We pause at the crossroads. The storms have washed a patch of mud and sunflowers onto the small lane that runs alongside. We try to understand how this happened. Was it caused by a small tornado ?  Why were the sunflowers at the edge of the field left undisturbed while others were uprooted ?  Our train of thought is interrupted by the young garagiste beeping his horn as he races by. Ten seconds later the old farmer in the Toyota Land Cruiser with the manic Westie does the same.

To the cafe in the little market town. A so-so croissant that's more like brioche. The PONs each receive a curled end and share a bowl of water. They rank all croissants as truly great . They drink noisily and lick their lips theatrically.

The pre-schoolers are up and out early. Working parents dropping them off at the kindergarten at seven. The little ones sit in the porch of the little abbey church and look up at the weird and wonderful carvings of demons and monsters. Saints are ignored - they just don't hack it. The children giggle and wave at Bob and Sophie. Both PONs, unsure about the wall of sound emanating from these small humans, pick up their pace and hurry along. 

Just another day in deepest France profonde with two happy ( and cooler ) dogs.

The past is such a different place : https://flashbak.com/take-off-to-1960s-space-motels-403711/

Laughter in the rain.

At last the heat breaks. A stunner of a storm bears down from the mountains bringing chill winds and rain the like of which was last seen by Noah. Bob and Sophie sit in the barn , tails wagging, as the storm rattles round them. They are finally 'encouraged' inside which requires their master venturing out into the elements in the dark to inform them it's bed time.

This morning the PONs are up at 5:53. Or more precisely, Sophie starts 'singing' at 5;53.  We head off down the lane and stop, as we always do, at the storm drain. Bob sits on my left, Sophie on my right. The young garagiste races past in his little black Citroen. He waves, Angus waves back. The PONs become uncharacteristically quiet. Down in the donkey field three young deer walk up the hill towards us, The wind is blowing from behind them so they're oblivious to our presence. Time to grab both PONs by their harnesses and head back home before Sophie thinks of giving chase. Metal knees do nothing to cramp her style.

Today, we're not the first in the greengrocers but we're not far off.

Local tomatoes. Big, fat, ugly things brimming with taste.

'Laughter in the rain'. Here's a Scots song and what might best be described as an enthusiastic  'Glasgow' audience.  

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

Beware the barrenness of a busy life

The hottest day yet. The mercury touching 39 degrees. 'The Font' has been to the toy store and bought two shallow plastic toddler paddling pools. The PONs steadfastly refuse to do anything other than drink from them. We try separating the two pools to see if Sophie will use hers for bathing. So far no such luck. Bob believes water to be the devils hand maid and has no intention of getting wet.

The heat that has been building up has now turned into a dark purple haze that stretches across the horizon. A sign an angry storm is on its way.

The motorway jammed with holiday traffic. Thankfully, after the pay station our exit ramp is clear. What fun it must be on the motorway with long tail backs and a car full of arguing little ones.

The pineapples from the Ile de Reunion make a come back in the greengrocers. Angus buys three.

'The Font ' arranges for the chimney cleaner to come. It's suggested he replace the tiles on the roof. He clambers up willingly enough only to discover an enormous bee nest in one of the chimney stacks. The chimney cleaner comes down from the roof, refuses to go back up and tells us he'll only return when we've dealt with the problem.

The Old Farmer wanders over to see what's going on. He informs us that it's the anniversary of the day when his wife, eldest daughter and dog were killed in a car accident. '' I'm driving off to the cemetery. I'll be back this afternoon after a good long chat ". His good long chat involves a picnic chair, an umbrella a bottle of wine and two glasses. One glass he leaves on the grave. After the better part of nine years in a French village neither 'The Font' nor Angus think this behaviour to be in any way unusual.

The mayor knew a gentleman who was an apiarist but sadly he's gone to the great bee hive in the sky. Inquiries will be made as to where we might get help with the bees.

We used to have a flat next door to the Castle in Edinburgh, The crowds at Tattoo time were a nightmare.  Start watching closely at the 5:40 minute mark and see the photographer walk backwards into a piper. Any lip readers are welcome to send their translation of what transpires on a postcard to ....
https://youtu.be/M57F70dywfw?t=313