Americas other export.

High summer in deepest France Profonde and it's quiet. Very, very quiet. The supermarket in the nearest market town is still open for business but the bakers, butchers and newsagents have all shut up shop for their four week annual holiday. Even worse is to come. The absinthe and beer drinkers cafe closes tomorrow - what will Wilf do when his morning routine is turned upside down ?

Aude , the bi-polar decaratrice. has also gone, leaving the hallway strewn with the detritus of her profession . Walking into the rickety old farmhouse is now like entering a challenging obstacle course. Wilf of course loves the scaffolding and stacks of paint pots - he can charge in, around and through everything.

It's August, there's not a cloud in the sky, the heat is melting the tarmac outside and 'the fonts' mind has turned to buying a stove. Yes. you read that right. Yesterday afternoon was spent chosing a new stove. Never one to prevaricate , 'the font' has decided that if we order a stove now it might be installed by mid-October - leave it until after the holidays and we'll be lucky if it's in for Christmas. Memories of the arctic winds that sweep through the old farmhouse in winter come rushing back. Fancy finding an American stove amid all the strange sounding Norwegian, Danish and Swedish makes. Boeing, Apple and now Vermont Castings.

'I was played'.

Back from a night away in a sunny and crowded London to be met by an enthusiastic Wilf at the airport. He had made the most of the time waiting in the terminal by playing with the sliding doors ( that whoosh sound is awesome) and making the acquaintance of two leather sandal wearing nuns.

Dinner with the most junior gannet in London. The restaurant recommendation - 'I know a great Indian' turned out to mean 'I know a great Indian where the curry is so strong it will strip the lining from your oesophagus'. In the absence of a working larynx the conversation was somewhat one sided. Not that there's much time for conversation when your dining companion attacks the food with all the efficiency of an industrial vacuum cleaner.

At the cafe this morning the French papers were full of the devastating news that Bristol and Levi are to split up. Wilf was devastated when I told him. The look on his face seemed to say 'Come on Levi - the night you announce your (re-)engagement is not the time to mention you might have fathered a child with another teenage girl'. Whatever happened to old fashioned manners ? As for the music video mocking the Palin family - well as the reticent Bristol put it " He's just obsessed with the limelight ". In the window of a gallery in London a marvellous ' guide to marital harmony' cartoon. It would have made the perfect wedding present.

Wilf PONders some more.

" There is more to life than increasing its speed ".

Wilfs fish and croissant morning.

A chilly 17 degrees this morning - a sure sign that the seasons are turning. Not that the raw start to the day bothered Wilf who was off like a Zippo firelighter on his morning walk.

To the fishmongers for some prawns and salmon. Wilf sat dutifully outside on the front door step while I waited in line - he knows that he's going to get fish for dinner so shopping is no hardship. There was only one salmon tail out on display so they had to go and trim two others. Maybe its only the Scots who ask for this most tender and boneless of cuts. Shopping done it was off to join the beer and absinthe crowd for our morning coffee and bowl of water. As I read the paper and ate my croissant Wilf put on his ' I'm an orphan dog whose never been fed' look. He was rewarded with the tasty, curved, slightly crunchy bits from either end. He tenderly nibbled these with all the deference due to a great treat.

Oh, a special morning thanks to Petey in New York http://www.peteysplayhouse.blogspot.com/ who has an uncannily similar lifestyle to Wilfs.

Mooonshader.

Eight in the morning and all the windows in the rickety old farmhouse are wide open and the village green is resounding to the sound of Cat Stevens 'Eym bin follod byer mooonshader, mooonshader, mooonshader'. Yes, the saintly Madame Bay is back. From the paso doble dance routine being enacted with the hoover in the upstairs hallway its clear that she is entirely reinvigorated after her trip to Croatia and the joys of the village kiln opening. Wilf and I found the two wings and the fly half sitting at the breakfast table looking sleep deprived. The combined sounds of hoover, uninhibited cleaning lady and slaughtered 60's classic proved impossible to slumber through.

Madame Bay gets on well with the gannets - they are in that elect band of sophisticates who have actually eaten one of her culinary marvels and asked for more. Ergo, they can do no wrong. While other people have stomachs they seem to have been born with galvanised steel receptacles. Gastric onslaughts such as Madame Bay's garlic, ground beef and anchovy pizza are not only taken in their stride but relished. Another sign of middle age. All I have to do is think of one of those cholesterol filled tortures and I get indigestion.

Aude the five foot nothing, chain smoking decaratrice with the bib-overalls and the bi-polar conversational disorder was not going to take any nonsense.'You're making quite a mess there' said Madame Bay. " What's it to you ?" came the prompt reply. Time I think for a trip in the car with Wilf.

On the day that God gets bored.

Some days just make you smile. Yesterday was one of those days.

By the time Wilf and I ventured out at six thirty the village was already a hive of activity. The first of the pottery stalls were being put up on the village green while over by the petanque court Madame Bay and the ladies of the catering committee were overseeing the laying out of the lunch tables. Their long suffering beret sporting spouses waved at us as we headed off along the lane. A little further on the mayor and his deputy were erecting a rather official looking 'road closed' sign to divert the traffic. While we chatted Wilf took the opportunity to let any visiting dogs know that this was his freshly christened territory.

At ten thirty the village bells peeled out for the first time in decades summoning villagers and visitors to the church for a special potters mass. The little old village church hasn't had a priest for more than fifty years but for this special occasion the 87 year old retired Abbe from the next village was called upon to officiate. He cut quite a figure in his green and white vestments. Mass over, the bells peeled out again and the ageing Abbe was helped ( half pushed , half pulled ) into the farmers rather splendid 1913 Chenil-Walcker to be driven the fifty metres from the church door to the kiln. 'It belonged to my great-grandfather' the farmer told me, stroking the front wing with pride. The first car to be registered in the village and still in working order today. These country folk don't waste much.

Here in this part of France the locals speak Occitane - an ancient mix of Spanish, French and Catalan. To our surprise the mass and the blessing of the kiln were conducted in this impenetrable sing-song language, full of glottal stops and clashing syballants. The old Abbe ended the blessing of the kiln with the words : ' On the day that God gets bored the moon will shine all day, ewes will leave their lambs and fired pots return to clay'. God certainly wasn't bored yesterday. The sun shone out in cloudless sky, the kiln spewed out smoke and cinders, the Abbe had a restorative glass (large) of armagnac, the villagers enthusiastically joined him and Wilf slept happy and content on the front door step. I'm glad this little place with its characters is part of our journey through life.

Sparks, cinders and pots. The village Vesuvius.

Out for an early morning walk with Wilf through the sunflower fields. For the second day in a row the chattering gaggle of pheasant and quail chicks streamed across the road directly in front of us - a scene of unbridled innocence. Wilf looked up when he heard the noise then reassumed his sniffing. A dog at peace with himself is a perfect companion.

THE great day has arrived. After another night of punch fuelled preparation by the villagers the brick kiln Vesuvius is all set for its great lunch time unveiling . It's cloudy this morning and I really hope the weather stays fine. Our sixty-five village neighbours have really put their hearts and souls into making this a joyous event.

While 'the font' dealt with a constant stream of visitors of the 'could we borrow some cream ?', 'do you have any more baking trays?' variety , yours truly and the gannets were despatched to the supermarket with a list of essentials. Top of the list was champagne - the secret ingredient in turning a chore into a pleasure. Then off to the fruit counter for peaches so that we could make bellinis. I have the feeling that the day will end up with villagers and potters encamped on our lawn in search of a glass or two of effervescent nectar. Wilf of course can be expected to work the crowds in search of sloppy eaters.