Carnival.

The carnival was due to start at three o'clock on the dot so we arrived at three thirty secure in the knowledge that southern France , like Italy, runs on a clock that is at least half an hour slow . There was time for a leisurely glass of wine at the cafe in the square and then at four or thereabouts the gendarme blew his whistle and the procession ambled into life - what's an hour here or there ?. This is a France far removed from the sophistication of Paris or Bordeaux. Everyone was involved. Loic the gardener drove his grandfathers reconditioned tractor, the local nursery school four year olds dressed up as majorettes, the town 'lads' squirted each other with shaving foam, the Rugby team turned out as hirsute shepherdesses, the old folk from the retirement home sat waving on a slowly moving trailer , while various dogs and toddlers ambled unconcernedly about . Opinion was divided over whether the highlight of the day was the firemans impromptu break dance routine or the breakdown of the ancient tractor pulling the apple growers float. We haven't enjoyed ourselves so much and so simply in years - at one stage both of us had tears streaming down our faces as the 'Simpsons' float became intimately entangled with a magnolia tree after unsuccesfully trying to overtake the stalled 'Playboy' float on the corner by the church. Pure unadulterated , glorious , Gallic chaos ensued with much shrugging of shoulders and waving of hands, all undoubtedly helped along by copious amounts of local armagnac.

Wilf has now recovered fully from last weeks run in with the processionary caterpillars. The vet has given him a thorough check and there is no sign of tissue damage to the tongue. His only remaining issue is an embarassing redness and itchiness where he sat down on the poisonous little critters.