Wilfs Thursday morning PONder.

" If it weren't for the rocks in its bed, the stream would have no song ".

Clot or clod ?

Tuesday afternoon and a white Peugeot van sweeps into the courtyard. Out steps Claude , ( he pronounces it Clod ), the trendy, thirty something tree surgeon. He's wearing a day-glo orange jump suit, a matching hard hat and what appears to be a parachute harness. As he greets me I can't help but notice that he has abnormally large, hairy, hands. It's a bit like a hand shake with a harris tweed covered dinner plate. Perhaps it's a useful simian trait for climbing trees. Wilf barks at Claude and carefully christens each of the vans tyres. The front offside one, no less than three times. No doubting who the boss is around here.

Claude looks at the fallen limb. He looks at the tree. He makes strange glottal noises - half hum, half word as he works. " They'll need to come down " he finally says, pointing to three branches brushing the roof of the barn. ' Can you do it now ?' I innocently ask as he clambers back into his van. " No way. It's too windy. I'll send you a quote . It's the woodpeckers " he cheerfully replies, heading off down the drive with a wave of the hand. After a year in the rickety old farmhouse I know that the word 'quote' is the French shorthand for ' this will be expensive '. Wilf looks at me. " Was his name clot or clod ? " he seems to say.

A solitary foreigner and his white fluffy dog.

Wilf joined me for our morning trip into town. At first he was a bit uncertain about venturing out, peering cautiously from behind the front door to see what the weather was like. The hair ruffling gale which blew through on Saturday now seemed to be blowing back again in the opposite direction. The magic word 'croissant' and Wilf had forgotten about the wind. In a split second he was across the courtyard and standing waiting to be lifted up into the back of the car. Our first stop of the day the bar . Time for a quick morning coffee and regulation bowl of water before picking up strawberries at the greengrocer. The bars exposed, outside tables, left to a solitary foreigner and his white fluffy dog.

The paper carried a story about the weekend wind damage. There on page three a picture of the newsagents sign which had been blown down onto the pavement. ' Thankfully there was no one underneath it ' the story concluded. The hectic pace of life in France profonde.

A queue of pensioners outside the pharmacist wanting to know if they could buy iodine tablets. Events in Japan do not go unnoticed even here.

Not a bad thought.

The morning papers make depressing reading. Scotlands loss to England in the rugby overshadowed by weightier events. It's a relief to come across a human interest story in the 'lifestyle' section. French infatuation with all things American. Bristol Palin has a new boyfriend. One Giacinto 'Gino' Paoletti. The young mans face stares out at us from the bottom of page nine. He has what I am led to believe is known as a ' mohican ' hairstyle.The accompanying article says that he is an outdoorsy type with a strong back. I wonder what this might be a French euphemism for. Then it strikes me. It's a mistranslation. They meant to say he should ' watch out for his back '. This young man is going to grow up very quickly.

" Goodness ! He's light ". ' The Fonts ' comment when lifting Wilf into the back of the car. The family fellows losing weight. You can see it in the photos . The lean look giving way to a sort of hollow cheeked gauntness. Muscle and fat gently dissolving away despite his best efforts to compensate.

Kelly, the ever sprightly hover dog, still acts as an irresistible attraction to our ageing matador. Three times a day we trot off towards her front gate. Our outward journey slow but determined. Our homeward leg interrupted by long recuperative, legs akimbo, pauses on the grass verge. While his young friend prances round him in a maelstrom of activity, Wilf sits and sniffs the air. A look that says ' this is all very interesting but I'd rather have a cup of cocoa '. The young seldom consider old age, and the old are obsessed with recollection.

Lives of quiet contentment do not make for a compelling story. I'm surprised, and thankful, that so many still follow us on our peaceful path. A reminder that dog blogs are as much a community as an art form. Through it all Wilf gets on with life. The sort of dog who knows that " you can complain because roses have thorns, or you can rejoice because thorns have roses ".

Celts believe in ghosts.

The gale blew and blew. At lunchtime a huge limb from one of the ancient oaks fell onto the roof of the barn. We returned from the market to find broken tiles and splintered joists littering the ground. This is the second time this has happened. Let's hope the marvellous old trees don't have to come down. Miraculously, the Land Rover that was parked in the barn avoided all the falling masonry and debris without sustaining as much as a scratch.

No less then eleven power outages last night. The irritating sort that cut the electricity for five minutes before restoring it for ten. Wilf was not happy. As a sign of displeasure he moved his sleeping position from the dressing room to the bedroom. The tried and tested " I'm not scared. I'm just here in case you need me " routine.

The cafe in the square is open again. Our resident absinthe drinking cohort out in force. They seem more than happy to have said goodbye to the competing establishments younger, hipper, recreational pharmaceutical crowd. Wilf content to sit under the table with his bowl of water and piece of croissant. An article in the morning paper says that Louisville, Kentucky is America's most haunted town. It goes on to explain that this is " because Kentucky was largely settled by Celts and Celts believe in ghosts ". Hmmm. That's scientific.

Home for 'oeufs a la pancetta et fromage de brebis sec' with ' cake au fromage de brebis et poires'. 'The font' bought far too much cheese at the market yesterday. Brebis is going to be writ large on the menu for the next few days. Some extra pancetta for Wilf who has strategically positioned himself in the middle of the kitchen floor.

A raft on the pond.

After a week of summer sunshine we've woken to a full blown Pyrennean mountain storm. The rickety old farmhouse creaking away like a ship at sea. Window frames rattling and shutters banging. From time to time the expensive grating sound of roof pantiles shifting in the ferocious wind. Wilf is not at all keen on venturing outside. A white furry head quickly stuck out of the front door before its owner turns and heads back to the warmth of his bed. He closes his eyes in the belief that he's invisible.

Our family friend is finally harnessed up and escorted, reluctantly, extremely reluctantly, to the gate. He stops, briefly, to christen the fire hydrant . A statutory part of the daily routine. Then we turn right down the lane, pausing en route, to look at the waves on the village pond. The poor frozen frogs clustering together on a raft of water lily leaves. Once home Wilf rests his head on my foot. A sigh that says " Knowing life is short, how can we quarrel ?".

Occasional wind.

Another meeting to discuss the fate of the village church. Wilf on his very best ' visitors pour moi ? ' behaviour. He greets everyone at the front gate before leading them across the courtyard and into the house. The mayor, the little lady in the purple hat, the deputy mayoress and various feuding villagers all given a peremptory once over with a large black nose. Satisfied that biscuits are in short supply the family fellow positions himself under the table and falls asleep. The reading of the minutes accompanied by soft canine snoring and the occasional passing of wind.

After discussing the post-operative arthritis in his finger, the mayor reads out a quote he's received for restoring the paintings. A separate, larger, quote for making the building secure and water tight received in depressed silence. Taken together a not inconsiderable sum for a village with a population of 63. A lot of concerts will need to be organized if we're to weatherproof the steeple and get the clock working again. After two hours agreement reached on launching a centennial appeal to restore the Great War frescoes. A new committee to be formed. Progress of sorts.