Morning walk done and fire hydrant christened,Wilf settles down under the shade of the chesnut trees on the village green. For him a chance to doze, for me a chance to listen to the sounds of French country life. The hum of the bees on the ceanothus , fidgety pigeons flapping on the belfry, frogs rasping in the pond, exotically plummed hoopoes whittering in the branches. The constant chatter of the redstarts. A year ago I'd have said that this was a world where silence reigned. Now with an old blind dog by my side there's time aplenty to hear creation in all its glory. Nature never takes away without giving something back in compensation. Where sight is gone, sounds console. Wilf sleeps contentedly on.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
One of the old ladies of the village marries an equally old farmer. The Salle de Fetes thronged with children, grand children, great grand children , family friends and guests. The combined age of bride and groom 171. We stop by to pay our regards but decide not to linger. The groom has made the wine and Madame Bay and the ladies of the Beautiful Byeways Committee are responsible for the catering. A combination that spells dyspepsia. The bride smiles, kisses me on the cheek and says " when you get to my age you don't want to spend a moment alone. Anyway, he's quite a catch ". Three in the morning. Out for a pit stop with Wilf. The sound of techno rave echoes from the village hall and the night sky is speckled with the rainbow colours of the disco ball. Age does not weary these farming folk.