Guarding the cafe.

Easter Saturday . The concert due to start at nine. We of course are running late. Getting everyone out of the front door a process akin to herding cats .

The old abbey church full of pilgrims en route to Compostella . Scattered among them in the gloom the more devout locals and a smattering of vactioning Parisians . The latter recognizable by being sharply overdressed. We stand at the back . The Comte and Comtesse see us and beckon us to seats in the side chapel . He's wearing a bright red woolen cardigan fastened at the front by leather straps . She's in tweeds and blue stockings. No one would mistake them for Parisians .

Angus perches on the tomb of a crusader . The organ swells asthmatically to life , its old pipes heaving and groaning . A choir from Slovakia singing in heavily accented English . " May Angels welcome you to Paradise ". A good enough sentiment for an Easter in France Profonde .

Wilf has been left to guard the cafe under the watchful eye of the junior cost centre. The old fellows sound asleep under the table when we find him . A half empty bottle of wine on the table and a bowl of water under it. Tell tale crumbs on the ground . One happy old family dog just enjoying life .