Monday morning in SW France . A hint of autumn in the air . The tables at the bar under the arcade all stacked away in the belief that no one could possibly want to sit outside . Wilf joins me inside at a banquette in the corner . He's soon asleep , deaf to the beer and absinthe crowd watching the umpteenth replay of France beating England on the television . The old fellow rouses himself, briefly, canine charm personified, when the waitress slips him the ends from a croissant . On our way home we stop for a walk by the river . A flock of turkeys , escapees from the farm at the junction , are clucking merrily away on the verges . They scatter in noisy panic when Wilf arrives .The three horses owned by the Matron of the Old Folks Home wander across the field to see what all the noise is about . Such sociable animals. I stop to chat . Wilf wanders on head down in the dewy grass, lost in his own content world equally oblivious to horses and turkeys .
" Let us be grateful to those who make us happy ; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom ".
