Bastille Day.

Its the July 14th National Holiday and the pace of life in the village, never hectic at the best of times, has amazingly slowed down yet further. This morning we have woken to catalepsy - France Profonde style. Not a sound to be heard or a person to be seen. Wilf was able to walk for an hour along the lane, down to the horse field, undisturbed by a single car, tractor or combine. While I daydreamed, listening to the song of the redshanks, he explored the verges . These were strewn with cantaloupes where a local farmer, his trailer overloaded with melons, had driven over the speed bump too quickly. After much sniffing, proding with his nose and then tentative licking, Wilf decided he didn't like cantaloupe.

Overnight the war memorial on the village green has been bedecked with flags, a long table has been set up outside the Salle des Fetes, and the mayor has wound up the church clock mechanism with its maddening chime - eleven times on the hour every hour, twice. In the absence of Madame Bay, who is vacationing in Croatia with the septaguenarian gendarmes, we have no idea what to expect as the day unfolds. However, one can be fairly sure alcohol will figure prominently in the days festivities.

Yesterday, Wilf joined me on a trip to the local hardware store to buy an umbrella for the terrace. There, amid a riot of brightly coloured garden furniture, stood one lone 'demonstrator' umbrella. Gallic logic prevented them from selling it. " Someone else might want it " said the manager and " No, it's too late in the year to order any more". We returned empty handed. Wilf gave me his best 'go figure' look and then ran to fetch a ball.