Pomegranates and the dead falcon .

On the evening walk a falcon falls out of the sky and lands dead at our feet . Wilf ignores it. I pick it up and lay it on one of the window ledges in the village hall . A sudden heart attack ? It's eyes still clear and bright . Late at night I walk across the village green and move this thing of beauty to a tangled, impenetrable thicket of wild pomegranates , junipers and blueberries . A more fitting resting place for an aristocrat of the skies . Strange how natures grace can move you .

Off in the car to look at a 12th century church in a deep valley three miles away . A sign on the front door : " If you want to gain entry knock at the house with blue shutters and ask Madame Dubonnet for the key ". Wilf waits in the back of the car while 'the font ' goes in search of Madame Dubonnet . A tall lady in a blue check shirt finally appears . She points out the nine hundred year old Greco-Byzantine frescoes in the apse . Gaudily over-restored to look as thought they'd been painted yesterday . A shame . The sense of antiquity completely gone to be replaced by something that would suit a Vegas wedding chapel . We smile and diplomatically tell our guide , quite truthfully , that '' they are really quite remarkable ".

France is playing New Zealand at rugby this morning . By seven the salle de fetes a hive of activity . Jack Russells hopping in and out of the french windows , five year old farmers sons staging sword fights , combine harvesters blocking the road, hamburgers being grilled on an outside barbecue , the mayor deep in conversation with his constituents . A scene of ordered chaos as only the French can do it . Angus is offered a very large glass of flock ( the lethal local brew ) and an undercooked cheeseburger before settling down with Wilf on a bench at the back . The family fellow is soon in a sleep so deep that he remains oblivious to the lusty singing of the Marseillaise . Life in France Profonde .