Spot the mistake.

Despite morning,noon and night calls to the missing workmen there is still no sign of any activity at the rickety old farmhouse . How is it possible for them to disappear completely ? Must be alien abduction . Have to wonder what the chances are of getting the gutters up and the electrical work finished ahead of Christmas and the familys return .

Off with Wilf to the big town sophistication of the regional capital to pick up the glass splash back for the new stove . We stopped off at a McDonalds on the motorway ! An activity frowned upon by 'the font' but wholeheartedly approved of by the family fellow. He sat by me at an outside table noisily savouring small bits of quarter pounder with cheese. Fast food now added to the list of culinary favourites alongside cauliflower cheese, tagliatelli, baked potatoes and of course coconut ice cream.

Got the splash back home only to discover that the electricians had made one huge mistake. Look carefully at the positioning of the wall mounted electrical sockets in the bottom photo and see if you too can spot the deliberate error ! Wilf remains hopeful that he will have another trip to the glass cutters and to McDonalds.

Quality time.

The weather forecast was quite simply abysmal with warnings of gale force winds, extreme cold and des gelees blanches . More like Iceland than France. It came as something of a surprise then to open the front door and find the sun rising into a near cloudless sky. The rest of Europe might have been brought to a halt by freezing temperatures and thick snow but the garlic growing region of South West France remains as warm and bright as a Scottish autumn day.

Down the hill with Wilf for a sun blessed walk along the valley floor. It's either a sign of the illness or a side effect of the cortisone but his back legs and hips are becoming noticeably stiffer and losing some of their suppleness and strength. Whatever the reason he refuses to complain and continues to exude his trademark affability and enthusiasm. Life is just taken at a more temperate pace. When tired our family fellow simply stops, lies down in the sun and observes his surroundings until he's ready to move on again. Wilfs motto : - Borrowed time can still be quality time.

This morning we met a wizened old farmer out for his morning constitutional . A beret wearing countryman with a gun slung over his shoulder on the look out for a rabbit for the lunchtime pot. He shook my hand, introduced himself, asked where we lived, and then bent down and greeted Wilf. We spoke about the weather, the proper way to serve foie gras, the local vets, his son in Toulouse, and the recent loss of his best hunting dog. " Dogs - they bring us joy and tears". Then he paused before carrying on " but mostly joy ".

UFO's, smoked salmon and diplomacy.

To the hypermarket in Toulouse to look for Scottish smoked salmon for St.Andrews night. Alaskan, Norwegian, Irish, Welsh, Bio. Everything but Scottish. After much searching finally found a few packs marked 'Ecosse Sauvage' skulking at the bottom of a refrigerated counter . Buying wine was much easier . The shelves were fully stocked and groaning under a huge selection of pre-Christmas delights. Yours truly could have spent all day there but 'the font' wanted to hurry back to pay Madame Bay.

As she was leaving the house Madame Bay informed us that we live in a UFO hotspot . Another of those gems of local information for which our saintly cleaning lady is famous. It seems that our little patch of paradise reports more strange objects in the sky than any other part of France . " Nothing to do with being an hour from the Airbus factory in Toulouse ? " I suggested. ' Mais Non ! ' came the emphatic reply. ' Why, Delphine ( her eldest daughter ) had been woken up at four o'clock one morning by strange lights in the garden . And M'Ongoose the intruders were completely silent ! ' The existence of extra terrestrial life proved beyond any reasonable doubt . My sympathy lies with Delphines sleep interrupted husband - but that was diplomatically left unsaid.

Dicussing the failings of the French rugby team with the owner of the bar this morning I suddenly heard Wilf issue a quiet bark. Something he never does in public. The peroxide waitress had collected all the crunchy crumbs from the mornings croissant delivery and was drizzling them slowly into Wilfs open mouth. Faced with a culinary treat like that he simply couldn't keep quiet. Canine sherbet. Life just keeps on getting better. I could have sworn he was smiling when he clambered up into the car.

Sun bathing.

Off bright and early with Wilf for a leisurely early morning walk. Today, we headed down the hill, across the stream and turned right, instead of left at the crossroads. New territory for both of us. For a while we followed the stretch of old roman road that runs along the valley floor, stopping so that Wilf could christen the weathered mile markers. Madame Bay had said that an American woman and her Dutch husband have bought a house on the river bend and are 'doing it up' in contemporary style. Contemporary in deepest Tarn-et-Garonne? This was something I had to see.

Despite my curiosity we didn't make it quite that far. After twenty minutes of carefree exploration Wilf had completely tired himself out. He sauntered slowly off the road and found himself a sun drenched spot on the river bank. There he sensibly settled down, head resting on paws, to watch the wild pheasants and plump, quarrelsome partridge scurrying through the long grass. From time to time he'd rouse himself to sniff the scent of the wild boar or deer in the forest. At one point a woman in a large Renault with Toulouse number plates raced, too quickly, along the narrow lane. The only car we saw all morning.

I wanted to get back but why hurry ? What in life could be as important as an extra half an hour on a sunny river bank with a faithful old companion ? Maybe we'll make it to the contemporary house tomorrow. Some journeys simply shouldn't be hurried.

Small apartments - big Turkeys.

While the rest of Europe shivers in the unseasonable cold our little corner of paradise continues to be blessed with clear skies and bright sunshine. You could almost believe it was spring if it wasn't for the arrival of the Christmas decorations in the bar. The waitress with the peroxide hair greeted Wilf and yours truly wearing an apron that spelt out 'Bon Noel' in battery powered flashing red lights. I fear the aprons novelty will have worn off by Christmas. Wilf gets fed pieces of croissant while I examine the new and truly hideous collection of postcards for sale behind the bar.

There is a decidedly unpleasant smell emananting from behind a radiator in the hallway. Wilf spent much of last night sniffing the skirting boards with evident delight. My guess is that a field mouse has decided to build its hibernatory nest on top of the central heating pipes . 'The font' has asked me, several times, what I intend to do about it. A solution - short of moving out to a hotel or ripping up the floorboards - seems hard to find.

Today a day for chasing up workmen. Perhaps one of them will have experience with malodorous mice. The gutterer hasn't been seen for a month and has disappeared without fitting the new downpipes or the all important final length of guttering above the front door. When it rains a Niagara of water cascades on unsuspecting guests. The painter also needs to be chivvied along. Five weeks ago he applied undercoat to the shutters on the street side of the house and completed two windows by the kitchen in the smart new Farrow and Ball colour scheme. Since then nothing. As for the electrician he's seems to have decamped to South America leaving wires sticking jauntily out of ceilings and power sockets unconnected.

Over lunch one of the lady professors informed me that restaurants in New York are required by law to stay open on Thanksgiving. I find this improbable. More likely that restaurants in New York enjoy a bumper days takings on Thanksgiving. Small apartments - big turkeys - seems sensible that New Yorkers would decide to go out to eat .

Prankster.

By the time we've parked the car the sun has risen and taken the chill out of the early morning air. Down by the river bank Wilf is in his element. He scampers backwards and forwards from tree to bush, from bench to tuft, from sign to post. All are deemed worthy of leisurely examination and christening. A library of information to be recorded and stored away until it can be re-examined during his pre-lunch Sunday morning doze .

Today is a good day. He's had a few bad episodes over the last week but this morning he's back to being our carefree, fun loving, family prankster. After fifteen minutes, worried that he's going to tire himself out, I turn to go back . Wilf has different ideas. He stands, four square in the middle of the path, staring resolutely ahead and making it absolutely plain that he wants to carry on. His 'life is for living' look. We carry on.

These days are as joyous as they are unexpected. The extra weeks have given us a chance to see and enjoy the world from his perspective. Walks don't need to be hurried, ditches are always more interesting than the sidewalk, mud is to be welcomed not avoided and spaghetti bolognaise and coconut ice cream , preferably mixed together in the same bowl, make the perfect meal. The priceless luxury of knowing that there won't be much left unsaid when the final full stop appears at the end of the chapter. For the time being we rejoice in the happy,'extra day' miracles. There comes a time when bittersweet segues naturally into being just plain sweet.

On our way home we stop off for the statutory cofee, croissant, bowl of water and hair tousling.Wilf beams as he meets his extended pack. The three lady professors from Ohio are coming for lunch today so a call into the wine merchants for six bottles of the new season Beaujolais. The bright summery labels shout out ' drink me now '. Then home for Wilfs first contented doze of the day.

'Minitin' for Christmas.

Barely above freezing this morning,the sun shining half heartedly through the crisp mountain air. Wilf made his way to the door, peered out and turned to me as if to say : " Blimey. I went to bed in France and I've woken up in Norway ! " . The magic word 'croissants' and he was scampering across the courtyard and into the back of the ageing Volkswagen.

Madame Bay joined us on our trip into town. Her youngest daughter, Sandrine, runs a hairdressing salon by the covered market. Sandrine of the imaginatively named Sandrines. Our saintly septaguenarian has volunteered to help her with the pre-Christmas rush. Thank heavens the raspberry tinted Sinead O'Connor style Madame Bay got in New York last year has grown out . It might have proved to be just a tad too challenging for the local, conservatism writ large, farmers wives waiting in the reception area.

On our way into town Madame Bay informed me that Monsieur Bay was taking her to 'Minitin' for a week in mid-December. " Minitin ?" I inquired, none the wiser. Madame Bay gave me that 'you should really get out more ' look and then slowly, very slowly, explained that after the great success of last year the retired gendarmes club were off to New York again. "Ah, Manhattan" I exclaimed. ' Oui, Minitin ' came the somewhat pitying reply. Guess I'll never cut the ice as a jet setter.