A busy morning.

A white van with a boxer dog sitting proudly upright in the passenger seat beeps at us as we turn out of the front gate onto the lane . The driver waves , the boxer turns his head and looks . Eight o'clock on a beautful , soon to be sun drenched , Sunday morning . The farmers, their male offspring ( mothers and female offspring sensibly still in bed ) and their dogs are already starting to congregate at the village hall. The rugby final between New Zealand and France . The local farmers clearly expect to win .

As Wilf and yours truly head off to the stream for our morning walk we can see the mayor , halfway up a ladder , nailing a large red, white and blue sign across the font of the salle des fetes : Nous sommes 65 millions a y croire. I shout out '' The population of the village has gone up a lot ! ". He looks back at me blankly .

Wilf has long walk today. The better part of a kilometre. When he gets tired, as he frequently does, he simply lies down on the road until he's ready to move on . Sometimes he'll turn on his back , point his four paws to the sky and let the sun warm his haunches . I laugh out loud when the sun catches his fur and he seems to briefly glow polar bear white .

On our return the barbecue is glowing outside the door of the village hall kitchen . The first of the sausages ready to be cooked. A line of ravenous five year olds beginning to form . As our contribution to the great day the font has made three large tartiflette au munster et jambon fume .

Wilf is having a short nap before we head across the lane to join our French neighbours , their tractors and their Jack Russells . The match starts at ten . Angus is trying to work out what wine should accompany the tartiflette. '' The font '' is of the opinion that at this time of the morning anything alcoholic would go .