The first strawberry.

This morning our first port of call the greengrocers. The moustachioed owner is standing outside, under the arcades, beaming broadly. He's painted the front of the shop a deep, rich red, and is extremely happy with the result. " It's a traditional colour Monsieur. A traditional colour ". Locally grown strawberries have started to appear. A variety called gariguette; crimson, sweet and floral. Summer on the tongue. There's nothing like a bowl of freshly picked berries to enliven breakfast. We pick up two punnets for € 5 before sauntering off to the bakers.

Shopping done, Wilf and yours truly head off for a coffee and a bowl of water. A sign in the door of the cafe, ' Closed due to bereavement. Open again next week '. This means that we have to cross the square to visit the competing establishment. All faux leather banquettes , plasma screen tv playing non-stop MTV and lottery tickets. It's crowded to the gunnals. Our local absinthe imbibing crowd mingling uneasily with the resident recreational pharmaceutical set. We sit at a table outside. Not much chance of a bowl of water for Wilf amid this chaos so we quickly set off again .

After breakfast the family fellow picks his way gingerly through the hyacinths and settles down on the lawn . Time for his morning nap . He'll be ten at the end of the month. An unexpected milestone I'd like to see him make. Our old chap seems to be enjoying this stage of his life. Something in the PON DNA thats says " Even if happiness forgets you a little bit, never completely forget about it ".