The great day arrives.

The great day has arrived and the village is gearing up for its saints day festivities. By seven, when we came back from our morning walk, the mayor was already in his office preparing for the day ahead and the first of the bric a brac stalls was being laid out under the lime trees on the village green. I waved at Monsieur and Madame Bay who were happily squabbling over something inconsequential and slipped through the open door of the church to take a quick photo. The statue, high on its pedestal in the nave, has been freshly kitted out with a garland of olive branches in readiness for its annual outing. There was something timeless and welcoming in the way the clear early morning sun had settled on the drab,hallowed old figure as if to say 'it's your day'.

Outside the village is looking at its best. The shrubs around the war memorial have been trimmed and weeded, the gravel swept, and the grass cut short. The two committees have done their work well. As I walked back across the village green to the front gate all I could hear was the frantic buzzing of the bees hard at work on the lime trees and the croaking of the frogs sunbathing on the water lilys in the pond. France profonde as it has always been.

Wilf is going to have a trim later on today. He doesn't know it yet and is sitting out unconcernedly by the pool in the shade of a large old damson tree.

38 degrees - snoozing weather.

It's hot. Very hot. Yesterday the mercury touched 38 and today it's forecast to be the same. At this time of the year Wilf is out and about on his morning walk by six and back home and sprawled out on the cool gravel of the courtyard with a sock for company by seven. He gets his second walk of the day late at night when the heat has died down. In between he dozes under the oak trees or takes refuge from the heat on the cool cellar floors.

Last night we went to a performance of a St.Saens symphony (L'Orgue) in the regional capital. The cathedral there has all the beauty of a railway terminus in upstate New York but the bland, barn like interior enjoys wonderful reverberating acoustics. Just as the symphony was reaching its climax a sudden, brief , Pyrennean thunderstorm opened up. Orchestra, organ and thunder all at the same time - spectacular.

The cold snap earlier in the month has decimated the roses. Let's hope they recover. The last bedraggled remnants have been scattered in vases around the house. A bit early in the year to be talking about the last rose of summer.

They were supposed to be in by Easter but after umpteen delays the vets new surgery is finally finished and open. 'The font' took down a bottle of champagne to the team to celebrate the completion of the facility and to say thank you to them for looking after Digby. To our surprise they have put his photograph on the wall behind the reception desk. Seeing his photo still stings seven weeks on.

The local farmers and their tractors have been rumbling up and down the lane since first light bringing wood for tomorrow nights 'saints day' fire. The ever growing, and now rather large pyre is due to be lit at 10.00 pm and the feast and music making will continue after that on the village green.On Monday photos of this great event and the hopping and dancing .

Heavens iconoclasts

Got to the airport, parked the car, cleared security and was just heading off to the gate when the phone chirruped . A text had arrived - "We regrets to inform that due to strike action your flight has been cancelled". Great timing. All flights from the airport had been cancelled due to a nationwide Air Traffic Controllers strike. France is in an uproar over plans to raise the retirement age to 62 from 60. Perhaps someone should tell them that it will soon be 67 in Germany and 66 in the UK.Wilf was delighted to see me come home . 'The font' who was up a ladder painting, slightly less so. A hectic burst of phone calls to cancel hotels and flights and tell the organizers of the conference that their dinner speaker wouldn't be there (nor as it turned out would be three quarters of their audience who were stranded in Paris).

The heat has arrived. It was 31 degrees yesterday and is set to hit 35 today. That's 100 something in old money. This morning Wilf is lying on his back, taking the opportunity,while it's still cool, to air those parts that need to be aired.

On Wednesday afternoon two post office vans came to the house to deliver a parcel. Not just any parcel - but a parcel from America ! In deepest Tarn-et-Garonne this is an event of some note , hence two postal vans. Out of the blue had come the most charming gift from our friends at www.fromthehouseofedward.blogspot.com. A marvellous hand made momento box with Digby's photo on top and a Siegfried Sassoon poem on an illustrated scroll inside. For a second or two the memories of our little companion came flooding back. What a kind thing for someone to do. What a heart warming reminder of the tenderness and compassion of people one's never met. In an impersonal world it seems that dog bloggers somehow share the secret of heavens canine iconoclasts - hearts can be listened to, emotions allowed to speak and the gift of the soul never forgotten.

For Wilf the package contained something even more interesting, some toys and a box of Jaffa Cakes. Proof that they do exist in America and the source of much delight for Wilf.

Summer sleepiness.

One of the unanswered questions about French villages in summer is what happens to all the people ? Our little village is deserted - not just quiet - deserted. From dawn to dusk not a soul is to be seen and not a sound , apart from the crickets and the amorous serenade of the frogs in the village pond, is to be heard. Yesterday a grand total of six cars and tractors passed along the lane outside the rickety old farmhouse, and two of those were post office delivery vans. Summer torpor has arrived in deepest France profonde.

The pool man and morose lad in blue bib overalls #2 came to clean the pool yesterday afternoon. Despite her recent locum induced hypocondria Madame Bay was at her 'golden years' dance class in the nearby market town so everything passed without incident. We took it in turns to haul bucket loads of wayward swimming pool frogs back to the village pond to be reunited with their kith and kin. This morning 'the font' has re-netted eight little blighters who have hopped back from the pond during the night to reclaim their highly chlorinated habitat.

After his trip into town with me Wilf has settled himself down on the cool grass in the shade of the oak trees. Last night he scratched at the door at one thirty am to be let out - a sign that this latest stomach upset was a bad one. This morning , the problem passed, he is as bright and as happy as a dog can be. He was even allowed to get a piece of fresh croissant from the girl behind the bakery counter. Bliss can be seen on a dogs face.

Have to rush off to the airport to go and give a speech to a group of men in suits. Back on a six am flight tomorrow. Did you know that if the Chinese continue to buy cars at the current rate then with thirty years all the worlds oil production will be needed just to keep the motorists of Beijing and Shanghai on the road ? What interesting times we live in.

Normality

Two years ago, when we were still living in Italy,Wilf was poisoned. He went out into the garden one morning and found some tantalising chicken nuggets under an oleander bush, less than twenty metres from the door, in our fenced off front garden. These lethally tasty, irresistible morsels had been liberally laced with organo-phosphates and left there by the local hunters to kill off foxes. To this day I get furious at the cavalier way they came into our garden with their poisons. It was a searingly horrid experience. Within ten minutes he started to shake uncontrollably, lost control of his bodily functions, and his breathing became sharp and raspy. After a forty five minute hectic drive we got him to the emergency room just in time. Perhaps because of this trauma he later developed severe pancreatitis. To this day he routinely gets a sore stomach and loses his appetite once every ten days to two weeks. The ailment lasts about twelve hours and seems to come no matter what we do to control his diet, his routine or his stress levels. Yesterday was one of those days. He lay uncomfortably in the hallway, stomach acid growling, trying to sleep it off. Poor old fellow.

This morning he is fully restored and was at the front door, basking in the morning sunshine and ready for the trip in the car to the light industrial park to christen the fire hydrants. I really wonder who enjoyed this return to normality more - Wilf or me?

This afternoon the pool man is set to return. 'The font' has arranged this at a time when we are 99% sure our saintly housekeeper will be at her 'golden years' dancing class. For the peace of the world let's all hope so.

The dance of fecundity.

The sun has made an appearance for a second morning in a row. Can it be that after two weeks of solid rain and chill temperartures summer is at last arriving? Wilf seems to think so. He has sprawled himself out on the grass to soak up the early morning warmth . After our walk to the light industrial park we stopped off at the fishmongers for some prawns for a risotto. There were six salmon heads staring unblinkingly at me on the counter. Who in their right mind would buy a fish head? At the greengrocers they were selling flat peaches - unsure what they were used for they were left well alone.

We didn't think that there was much more that could surprise us about life in our sleepy little village. That is until this morning. Madame Bay, who is still very taken with the new locum : - "Il est vachement bandant!" - arrived with a spring in her step and a smile on her lips. She was collecting for the 'antique' ie 'bric a brac' stall for Saturdays saint day festivities. I gladly scouted around for some pieces that she could take away with her. Then she dropped the bombshell. 'Had we made reservations for the dinner on Saturday night?'.

It seems that every year the two mutually loathing village committees hold a 'feast' after the yard sale and at the end of the religious ceremonies. At six in the evening the statue of the local saint is paraded around the village ( yes, that's right past all eight houses ) to scare away evil spirits. Then after the hard work is done everyone from the village and the outlying farms ( a grand total of 67 including yours truly and 'the font' ) repairs to the village hall for a night of festivating. At midnight, which by my reckoning is at least five and a half hours after the armagnac and floc have been opened there is a 'feu de la St.Jean'.

I caught a look of horror on ' the fonts' face as the description of a 'feu de la St.Jean' came tumbling out - "Ces feux, tres anciens,sont investis de vertus magiques : ils purifient et protegent contre les sorcieres, les maladies, les puces ... le village se reunissent pour des danses et des sauts fecondants par-dessus le feu". In other words the fire is invested with magical properties which purify and protect against sorcerers, illness, insects ... the village all gathers together for a fertility dance and hop around the fire.

The sight of the slightest tremble on the fonts lower lip told me that we were both sharing the same tear inducing vision of a chiffoned Madame Bay dancing and hopping around the village bonfire in a solstace frenzied druidic fertility dance. A French Boadicea. What have we done? Where have we come to? Would the young locum be there? Would the knee problem disappear as suddenly as it arrived? Welcome to the world of John Updike.

Wilf is not bothered by any of this- he's dreaming of fish heads and the fact that there maybe a place that's even better than the butchers.

The locum and sore knees.

Wilf is in fine form. After a week of solid, Orkney type rain, the sun has returned and with it his irrepresible
zest for life. As soon as he heard me putting on my shoes he was downstairs at the front door ready to get outside and chase squirrels.

The dry weather also means that we can segue back into our morning routine. After a walk round the light industrial park we settled down at the cafe for our morning cup of coffee and bowl of water. Then it was off to the butchers for some chops . The butchers shop is Wilfs absolute favourite venue and one that even puts the cake shop in the shade. He sits transfixed, staring in serendipitous delight at the sausages and salamis - dog heaven. Then it was off to the spice shop for a bottle of vinegar and a bottle of walnut oil.

Madame Bay is supposed to come in to clean on Tuesday and Friday mornings. In practice this means that she pops in whenever the spirit moves her. This morning , her moving spirit was working overtime, and she arrived just as we were finishing breakfast to announce the she was on her way to the doctors. As Madame Bay has a constitution that would put an ox to shame this was rather surprising and alarming news. 'Nothing serious I hope ?' said 'the font' only to be met with a girlish giggle and the announcement that there is a handsome new locum here for the summer while the old doctor is away. " Il est ravissant!". I'll wager that the poor man manages to last at most two weeks before scurrying back to Toulouse. Nothing, but nothing in his previous medical training could have prepared him for our libidinous septaguenarian and the sudden, and inexplicable, problems with her sore knees.