String vests .

It's still raining . The centre of town a hive of muted Monday morning activity . A small crowd of beret wearing tradesmen standing under the dripping arcades . Each of them noisily providing his own analysis of yesterdays election results . A phalanx of shoulder shrugs, arm waving and pouts . Textbook Gallic body language . Wilf settles down under a table for his half croissant. The plumber buys Angus a coffee. '' I'll be out to see you later this week " . Angus smiles . The waitress tells Wilf he's looking very handsome this morning . Wilf smacks his lips.

Local white asparagus in the greengrocers. The height of the season . Wilf waits at the shop door while Angus buys a kilo. '' Picked fresh this very morning " says the greengrocer . A lady in a bright red headscarve with a matching string shopping bag talks merrily away to Wilf .

Back to find the old farmer working on his motorhome. Angus waves and says ' Bonjour '. Our neighbour looks up . '' What's good about it ? If that lot get in I might as well go and live in North Korea " . Someones clearly not happy with the election results . Angus wonders how many North Koreans wear string vests. Wilf , unbothered by such things, heads off to christen the fire hydrant .

Regrets and consolations .

The mayor is up bright and early . A busy day ahead . The first round of the Presidential elections . Two tables and four chairs in position by the front door of the town hall . The mayor looking very dapper in blazer , grey crimplene trousers and beige shoes . The red tartan pork pie hat adding just the right touch of informality . The mayors secretary , unsmiling and efficient , in a blue suit and black stockings. Overnight someone has drawn a moustache, horns and a tail on the poster for the far right candidate . The mayor wonders if he should paste up a replacement . Angus asks him if he has any glue . He doesn't . He doesn't have a new poster either . Decision making made easy .

For the great day Madame Mayor has made a large plate of honey croissants . These have pride of place on the first table. Honey in the dough , honey in the centre and a honey glaze . Heaven for those who like honey . Wilf falls very firmly into this category . He takes a piece from me, settles down on the floor and sighs . Being a gentleman he doesn't let on that he's already had half a croissant at the cafe under the arcades . He tucks in with relish . After much tongue licking the family fellow looks back at me as if to say " That was good . I'm hanging around for another eleven years ".

Old , blind , PON's know that life may have its regrets but it also has its consolations . Excitement over , Wilf heads home across the village green for a nap .

Muddy puddles .

Textbook April weather . Wet and windy . During a gap in the rain Angus decides to head off , Wilf in tow , for an afternoon walk . '' Do you think it's wise ? " asks 'the font ' , looking at the ever darkening sky . " It'll be fine . We won't be gone long " comes the reply .

We make it to the end of the lane . The first wild orchids appearing in the hedgerows. It starts to rain . Then it starts to rain heavily . Finally the skies open . It pours . Power shower precipitation . The wind springs up , thunder rolls , the tree branches wave wildly. Wilf takes the downpour as a heaven sent opportunity to sniff every flower, christen every tree , and roll - languidly - in every malodorous smell . The more Angus wants to hurry, the more Wilf wants to slowdown and savour the joys of nature . The selective deafness of a dog that's in his element . He stands, head high , nose sniffing the air , immovable. Muddy puddles a ' must walk in ' source of delight . Old , ' let me get my nose deep down in the grass ' , smells , reinvigorated by the downpour.

Wet, happy, dog and less happy owner are soaked to the skin when they return . ' The font ' looks up with a smile and asks " Is it wet ? " . Some freshly made fish terrine , a towel dry, and the old fellows soon asleep in the warmth of the kitchen . A scene acted out around the world ten million times a day ? Dogs and their owners . Lifes ever optimistic weathermen .

The dustmen vote .

It's just getting light . Wilf and Angus head off to the bakers . The mayor is already in the village hall setting up tables and chairs for Sundays voting . '' Busy day coming " he shouts out . '' It's the Presidential elections ". He pauses and then repeats this , slowly, in case we might be unaware of it . Unable to think of anything else to say Angus replies ' Ah , Oui '.

The local dustmen are holding some form of union meeting at the cafe under the arcades. A sea of day-glo yellow jackets . Raised voices and arm waving . Very Gallic. They seem unperturbed by the arrival of a fluffy dog and its bobble hatted owner in their midst .The beer and absinthe crowd , relegated to the inside of the cafe , sit in glum silence. They are clearly unhappy with this change to their daily routine. Wilf still gets his half croissant and a hair tousle. The dustmen are still there, voting on something, when we leave .

A poster in the bar window. The locals have discovered that an American company has got the rights to explore for shale gas. An anti-fracking movement developing . Angus makes a mental note to find out where they plan to drill .

A walk with Wilf along the roman road. The old fellow ploughs ahead . Head high . Amazing how he's learnt to cope with blindness . Truth in that saying : ' All things are difficult before they are easy ' .

8 metres in height .

Another day of chill winds and April showers . Apart from a trip to the bakers Wilf opts to spend most of his day in the kitchen where ' the font ' is making a blood orange cake .

Outside , Angus is planting a blue garden . There used to be a huge Ceanothus in the park facing Buckingham Palace . Thirty feet tall at least . An exotic mass of deepest blue amid the Royal Park Services tulips and daffodils. A haven for bees and butterflies. Four or five years ago it was cut down to the ground. We tried growing something similar in Scotland but the North Sea winds kept the poor thing permanently pruned to a lacklustre three or four feet .

There were two varieties of Ceanothus tree at the garden centre in Toulouse. One dark, the other light. The American Horticultural Society guide to plants say they both grow to 8 metres in height. We'll see.

Wilf wanders off to bed at ten . He sleeps all the way through to seven . The six weekly cycle finished , he's back in his really good place .

Inexplicable communication .

The sun comes out. Wilf wanders through to where I'm working and sits, half expectantly, half patiently, at my side . There's something special about the eyes of a blind dog . Open and trusting . Devoted . The focus somewhere just beyond and behind you. I lean over and scratch his head . He lies down , drums his two front legs excitedly on the carpet, and lets out a high pitched '' let's go and play " bark. He's not done this since he was a puppy . I laugh . The carefree Indian Summer of a dogs life.

Satisfied he's got my attention , he trots out of the office . Leading the way. By the front door he stops. A place beside him on the cool doorstep. I join him there . For once I've read it right . Exactly what he wanted . He turns, reverses himself onto my left foot and presses his full weight against me . A PON's favoured , facing forward, on guard, flock behind him, position . He can't see but he can feel. Something elemental that speaks to the heart .That inexplicable communication between dog and human .

Not the wisest of moves .

Another chilly morning . The geraniums on the terrace looking less than pristine . Next year Angus will definitely remember not to plant them out until the 1st of May .

The first round of the French Presidential elections less than a week away . The billboards in the marketplace festooned with posters. None of them have been defaced . The possible exception being that for the far right candidate . Her poster has simply disappeared .

In the cafe all eyes turned to the early morning news broadcast . The King of Spain is in trouble. While the Spanish government has been implementing widespread spending cuts the King has been away in Botswana shooting elephants. A luxury holiday , combining private jets and slaughtering innocent animals , not the wisest of moves while hospital closures are being announced .

The waitress chats happily away to Wilf as she feeds him his half croissant . I ask her what happens to the other half . '' It's the barmans breakfast . But he never finishes it " . Cynics might wonder if he gets the chance .

A trip to the bakers then home to find Madame Bay hard at work . Two days in a row. She bustles past me . Her unmistakeable hyperactive mode . '' So many pillow cases . So many pillow cases ". Unsure how to reply Angus and Wilf close the door to the office . While Angus writes, Wilf sleeps.

The badly placed bollard.

A starry night followed by a cloudy ,chilly, start to the morning . 6 degrees . The outside tables at the cafe under the arcades almost deserted . The only customers daft enought to sit there a man in a bobble hat and what appears to be a small polar bear with a half croissant between his front paws. On our way back to the car a detour to the cake shop. Angus chooses a strawberry flan .

Hugo, the good for nothing son-in-law, drops Madame Bay at the front gate. '' Pick me up at twelve. Don't be late ! " her parting words . Hugo, oblivious, is already holding a mobile phone to his ear while lighting a cigarette . The gold metallic ' Wild Child ' voiturette , Madame Bay's usual conveyance ,is in the garage to have its front wing rejoined to its body . The effect of a moments confusion between the accelerator and the brake . '' A stupid place to put a bollard " the now , well practised , defence .

Soon every radio in the house is tuned to Radio Nostalgie. Long forgotten French crooners from the 50's. Smoochy lyrics, cheerful accordions and lots and lots of flutes . Unchallenging , clear cut rhythms , ethereal chords . Madame Bays idea of heaven . She doesn't so much hoover as waltz along the corridors. A Monday morning vision of loveliness in orange chiffon. Wilf heads off to the peace of the library for a nap .

Simply nothing .

Sunday morning . The fat, happy , bees at work on the wisteria by the front door. The hawthorns lining the road a solid ribbon of sun dappled blossom . Not a car to be seen . France Profonde at its best. Wilf back to normal today . He's at the foot of the stairs waiting for me . The man on the motability scooter shouts out ' Bonjour Mistah Veelfe ' as we arrive at the cafe. The waitress stoops down and takes his head in her hands . A long hair tousle . Half a croissant , broken into mouth sized pieces, gratefully received .

We head along the grass path that runs to the stream . A Kingfisher flits from a branch and lands by the water in front of us . A tiny rainbow of colour . Living Lapis Lazuli . I think it's going to drink but instead it spreads its wings and splashes its feathers. On the way home a young Black Winged Kite skims across the freshly ploughed field . A prince of the skies .Only 22 breeding pairs in the country. The first I've ever seen . It wheels and comes back , circling past us. A private display of dexterity given for nothing , simply nothing , other than joy .

Plenty left .

A large truck with orange flashing lights and an extendable ladder arrives on the village green . Three men in blue overalls spend an hour arranging billboards and pasting up posters . It's the first round of the French Presidential elections on the 22nd . The mayor arrives to supervise. They ignore him . From the efficiency and evenhandedness of the operation this must have been paid for and organized by the government . Wilf and yours truly wander over to join the mayor. Wilf christens the first , third, and seventh billboards . Others left for tomorrow and the day after.

To the garden centre. Wilf happily asleep in the back of the car . The green vases bought last year haven't turned out to be the promised bargain . The cold weather in February has done for the glaze. The sales lady only has two of the genuine , frost resistant, Anduze vases in stock . We need four . '' I can't order any more " she gruffly informs us . '' Take them or leave them ". With a shrug of the shoulders she's off. Duty done . The wonders of French retailing . Angus wonders whether she means ' can't ' or ' can't be bothered ' .

A rough night with Wilf. The mischief inside him reminding us it can be tamed but not cured. This morning dog and owner both in need of sleep. Dog left to slumber on at the foot of the stairs . Owner goes off alone . The waitress asks if I'd like Wilfs half croissant . Much hilarity all round . That miraculous power of dog to make you laugh .

Me ? No !

All the supermarket check-outs, bar one , busy . I push up the trolley, smile and cheerfully ask " Are you open Madame ? " . ' Me ? No ! The till yes ' , comes the frosty reply . Gallic disdain. One irascible lady . The rest of our interaction conducted in silence.

Grey skies. Scudding clouds . Wilf has a long afternoon saunter along the road that snakes through the valley . He signals it's time to go home by lying in the long grass, rolling on his back and then falling fast asleep . Life in deepest France Profonde . The sound of trickling stream, chattering birds and an old snoring PON.

Waxy Breack .

The night of the annual village meeting . A guest speaker from Bordeaux. A talk about the effects of the recent drought on garlic production . Due to start at seven . We wait until seven fifteen and walk across the green with Wilf. A full house. Madame Bay in a broad brimmed hat. The old farmer in checked shirt and track suit bottoms . Hugo, the malevolent Maltese, is there with his owners . Is it my imagination or do they ignore us ?

Seven thirty .The mayor stands up. '' It is with particular warmth that we welcome Monsieur ... " . He delves into his inside pocket for the slip of paper with the speakers name on it . He's unable to find it. Flumoxed , he turns , and points to the man sitting next to him on the platform . The man is dressed in black polo neck, black jacket, black trousers and brown shoes . After a suitable pause the mayor continues : '' Our speaker tonight is an acknowledged expert on garlic, its uses, and its recurrent maladies ". With that the mayor sits down .

' Ladies and Gentlemen. Dear friends . Welcome to the miraculous world of garlic ! '. Not many talks start like that . The facts spill out . 37% of French garlic is produced within 20 kilometres from here. Young people are apparently less keen on garlic than they used to be ( he uses the term a la snober ). Garlic is the best cure for gout. After this Angus starts to doze. Twenty minutes later he wakes up . The man in black still in full flow. There is a garlic malady with the unlikely name of Waxy Breack . Then a quick run through bacteria transmission, calcium deficiency and drought derived garlic diseases and we're finished . Half an hour of questions.

On the way out ' the font ' shakes the speakers hand. '' Absolutely fascinating . We wouldn't have missed it for the world ". Angus is less sure about the ' we ' part of this statement. Wilf sprints home across the village green . Roast chicken for dinner .