Pomegranates and the dead falcon .

On the evening walk a falcon falls out of the sky and lands dead at our feet . Wilf ignores it. I pick it up and lay it on one of the window ledges in the village hall . A sudden heart attack ? It's eyes still clear and bright . Late at night I walk across the village green and move this thing of beauty to a tangled, impenetrable thicket of wild pomegranates , junipers and blueberries . A more fitting resting place for an aristocrat of the skies . Strange how natures grace can move you .

Off in the car to look at a 12th century church in a deep valley three miles away . A sign on the front door : " If you want to gain entry knock at the house with blue shutters and ask Madame Dubonnet for the key ". Wilf waits in the back of the car while 'the font ' goes in search of Madame Dubonnet . A tall lady in a blue check shirt finally appears . She points out the nine hundred year old Greco-Byzantine frescoes in the apse . Gaudily over-restored to look as thought they'd been painted yesterday . A shame . The sense of antiquity completely gone to be replaced by something that would suit a Vegas wedding chapel . We smile and diplomatically tell our guide , quite truthfully , that '' they are really quite remarkable ".

France is playing New Zealand at rugby this morning . By seven the salle de fetes a hive of activity . Jack Russells hopping in and out of the french windows , five year old farmers sons staging sword fights , combine harvesters blocking the road, hamburgers being grilled on an outside barbecue , the mayor deep in conversation with his constituents . A scene of ordered chaos as only the French can do it . Angus is offered a very large glass of flock ( the lethal local brew ) and an undercooked cheeseburger before settling down with Wilf on a bench at the back . The family fellow is soon in a sleep so deep that he remains oblivious to the lusty singing of the Marseillaise . Life in France Profonde .

Devotion.

The old farmer visits his wifes grave every day . Out of the front door, right across the village green and then sharp left past the church . A journey of two hundred yards . He sits under the yew tree by her tombstone and then chats away aloud for an hour . An unchanging routine of continued devotion . We pass the graveyard on our afternoon saunter . He sees us and shouts out " just telling her to keep the bed warm for me ". I wave back unsure quite how to respond .

' The Font ' is making Selle d'agneau sauce aux cepes et son soufflet de carotte for dinner . Wilf and yours truly are sent to the supermarket for cepes. It's the foire aux vins . Hundreds and hundreds of different wines . We return an hour later with a dozen cases of burgundy and some chocolate . When asked where the cepes are we have to admit that they have somehow been forgotten . We get a rare '' Oh Angus ! " . Wilf gets a second visit to the supermarket . This time with ' the font '. He also gets a bowl of water and a piece of wholegrain bread at the supermarket cafe .

Mystery .

A mystery of dog ownership. Daytime pit stops can be accomplished in forty five seconds . Two o'clock in the morning pit stops, with Angus standing at the front door in nothing more than a dressing gown and bare feet , require at least ten minutes of unhurriable flower sniffing and garden exploration. Why?

A truly comical sight .

Strange behaviour . Pit stops at 1.20 am and 2.15 am . Then awake growling and barking at 3.00, 3.10 and 3.50 . Most unlike Wilf . No interest in going out when the door is opened for him . He finally comes upstairs at 4.00 and sleeps on the Turkish rug outside the dressing room . When I get up at six he's already awake . An unsettled night . A sign that there's discomfort inside? Or maybe something as simple as the sound of the wind in the plane trees or the owls on the church roof ?

He seems happy enough on our morning visit to the bakers and cafe . The end of a croissant from the bakers wife . A slow walk on our way back . Egrets standing on the heads or backs of the cows in the field . At least twenty of them . A truly comical sight . I try to get a photograph but they fly away as we approach. I'll keep on trying .

Home to find a turbaned Madame Bay hard at work polishing the windows in the drawing room . She's got every radio in the house tuned to Radio Nostalgie and is singing along lustily with Mick Jagger . '' I can't get - no - satisfaction - 'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try " . With each repetition of '' I try " she does a little 360 degree dance , waving the duster above her head, chiffon twirling in the slip stream . Our saintly septaguenarian chuckling away merrily to herself.

Victor Hugo once said " there is an unspeakable dawn in happy old age " . Both Wilf and Madame Bay would agree .

Wet .

Croissants safely stowed in the back of the little old Volkswagen we head off for our morning walk by the river . No sooner is Wilf lifted down from the back than it starts to rain . Lightly at first and then heavily . Very heavily . After carefully christening a fence post the family fellow turns around and heads determinedly back to the car . I'm left in absolutely no doubt that old PON's don't do wet .

With the rain thundering against the roof we set off to the supermarket . Rugby fever has arrived . An inflatable six foot tall bottle of Heineken stands in the middle of the first aisle . Around it kegs of beer , a rather forlorn ficus and a rack of French rugby shirts with made in India labels . The tout ensemble quite underwhelming . This early in the morning the supermarket eerily deserted - a retail Marie Celeste.

No coconut ice cream in the freezer . There is however a limitless supply of Creme Brulee with Caramel chunks. This is the sort of flavour that is bound to appeal to Wilfs gourmet palet . Two cartons go in the trolley . En route to the cash desk a display of goats cheese . The packaging on the Chabichou du Poitou says that it's 'a powerful cheese that will enthrall your senses '. I buy some for ' the font '.

It's stopped raining . Time for a second attempt at a walk . This time Wilf saunters merrily off , head down in the grass verge. The rain a great re-invigorator of malodorous delights .

A squiffy PON .

As I come down the stairs Wilf sits bolt upright . He's spent the night curled up asleep in the office . The sound of my footsteps waking him from a deep , untroubled, sleep. By the lopsided look of him he must have been happily dreaming of chasing squirrels. One decidedly squiffy PON .

A few moments to stretch out , collect his thoughts and work out where he is. Then it's onto his back for an early morning tickle. Much yawning and swallowing as all the built up stress melts away .

To town for croissants, the newspapers and our ritual visit to the cafe . The waitress sees us park the car . By the time we've sauntered across from the bakers to the arcades the coffee is already on the table and Wilfs water is ready in a white porcelain bowl under it . '' Bonjour M'Ongoose. Bonjour Wilfee " chorus the beer and absinthe crowd .

Wilf returns home and immediately settles down in exactly the same spot in the office . Time to catch up on a few zzz's after an exciting excursion with his flock . Old PON's know that you live longer once you realize that any time spent being unhappy is wasted .

Bliss in the planter.

Wilf finds something interesting in one of the flower planters under the arcades . Whatever it is warrants a full five minutes of intense sniffing and pawing . One of those canine moments when the rest of the world disappears and its just dog and malodorous treasure .

Overnight a strong, unexpected rain bearing wind from the Pyrenees . Had to be . I spent an hour watering the parched garden before going to bed . The weather forecast once again completely useless . This morning ' the font ' busy pruning the sodden roses and filling up vases .

Two bottles of St.Julien and a plate of blinis and foie gras as rugby ' snacks '. France plays Canada this morning . The village green outside the salle de fetes already a tangle of badly parked combine harversters , tractors and white vans an hour before the match starts . The France Profonde of farmers, their five year olds and well trained Jack Russells.

Wilf doesn't get the foie gras but he does get two blinis . If the contented swallowing and careful nose licking are anything to go by , these get full marks . Jonathan Swift got it just about right when he said - " May you live all the days of you life ".