A clash.

Work has moved from outside to inside. Broken or uneven floor tiles lifted, relaid, and in some cases replaced. Wilf is kept downstairs to avoid the obstacle course in the upstairs hallway . The builders have brought biscuits so he is quite content to lie in the sunshine by the font door.

Madame Bay is in the kitchen when I return from the croissant run . Wilf has positioned himself on the floor his nose pointing towards the thick slice of buttered toast held in her right hand. '' It is simply impossible for me to work today M'Ongoose. I must be in the kitchen ". It soon transpires that Madame Bay means the salle des fetes kitchen .

It is the weekend of the village fete and our saintly cleaning lady and the ladies of the Village Fleuri Committee are preparing tomorrow nights dinner. Pouring a second cup of coffee she passes a xeroxed flier across the table to the font.

19.30 : A la salle des fetes - Mounjetade

Veloute d'automne
Terrine au foie gras sur son lit de salade
Jarret aux haricots de Soissons
Fromage
Pastis gascon
Vin, cafe et digestif

Bal Disco avec Best System.
Venez nombreux.

We'll see you at seven thirty she says before rearranging her lime green turban and heading out of the door to the gold metallic ' wild child ' voiturette parked outside. Amid the crashing of gears and the hearty revving of the two stroke engine she's off the full forty yards to the village hall.

" I wonder if she knows that France are playing England in the rugby tomorrow ? " I ask ' the font '. A battle royal over access to the kitchen between the rugby crowd and the Village Fleuri ladies looms large.

Farmhouse TLC .

Time for the rickety old farmhouse to receive some TLC. After the long hot summer and the flash flood the old building is showing signs of wear and tear. ' Subsidence ' says the mayor helpfully as he stops by to see what's been happening and have a glass of champagne .

Six months ago we'd asked the local builder to come along and repair various cracks in the facade and strengthen a portion of the garden wall which is leaning at a somewhat jaunty angle .Nothing more was heard of this builder despite bi-weekly " When will we see you ?" calls to his answer machine. Local tradesmen all seem to spend long sojourns in that special place where there is no mobile, or indeed any form of telephony . ' The font ' believes this special place is called a beach on the Seychelles .

So it was that yesterday morning a new construction crew arrived. Wilf is already very much taken with them. They all, without exception, chat to him and provide under chin tickles . Now that the formal introductions have been made Wilf has high hopes that they might be biscuit people. Maybe even Jaffa Cake people.

Eight o'clock at night and guess what ? The original builder shows up and says he's ready to start work tomorrow. He is sent politely away. Typical. Wilf doesn't even bother barking at him .

Sleeping cheese.

Pre-dawn darkness. Time for the daily trip to the bakers. Wilf has chosen to spend the night asleep at the foot of the stairs . He's got his nose deep inside one of my gardening shoes , his right paw guarding the other . I pick up the car keys, open the door and shout out '' Croissants ! ". His fringe moves but that's all . Sometimes a boy needs his beauty sleep .

' The font ' finishes dinner with a particularly powerful goats cheese . Wilf arrives , his nose , or the one nostril that still works, turned expectantly in the direction of the pungent delight . He seems to be saying that this is not just any food - this is what Polish Lowland Sheepdogs eat in their natural habitat.

For ten years of his life this sort of dining room behaviour was forbidden but there comes a time when rules are meant to be broken . The family fellow gets three tiny slivers. Afterwards he sleeps , pit stop free , all the way through . Perhaps we should give him goats cheese every night ?

' The font ' has just drawn an unhelpful comparison between the goats cheese and the inside of my shoes .

Hello !

The year moves on . The early morning croissant run now conducted in pitch darkness . I call out to Wilf who's sound asleep at the top of the stairs . He sits up , looks around, then peers down at me as if to say " do you know what time it is ? " . By the time I've made it to the front door he's once again snoring contentedly , and very loudly .

Another hot day with the temperatures well up into the 30's. Our fourth week without a drop of rain . Up into the cool hills for a lunchtime picnic. While we set out the lunch things Wilf criss crosses the fields , nose down , following exciting trails. Twenty minutes of almost constant activity - quite something for this old fellow . Miraculously he reappears at our side the very minute the roast chicken is brought out of the hamper . That innocent ' Hello ! Am I in time for lunch ? ' look that dog owners know so well . One very happy boy .

The grandmother clock .

After an absence of three months the old Swedish grandfather clock has returned . The repairer arrived in his van , unannounced , at ten on Sunday morning . '' I was just passing " he said as if this somehow explained why he hadn't telephoned to warn us of his plans beforehand .Twenty minutes of tinkering and it bursts into life . A happy crash of cogs, weights and bells. The repairman collects his cheque and goes.

The wisened old thing now marks the hours with an unexpectedly high pitched doink, doink, doink . Its chimes have risen by the better part of two octaves and now sound more like an irate Swedish grandmother than a Swedish grandfather . Wilf spends much of his morning lying by it . The excitement of unexpected visitors has quite worn him out .

Sunday morning .

6.57 am in the village hall . The place crammed to the gunnals with farmers , their sons and the ever present pose of Jack Russells . The Jack Russells are playing their game of climbing up onto the stage then jumping out of the low windows onto the village green . They then rush back inside to repeat the process . Over and over and over . Boundless energy . No one bothers stopping them . The process from beginning to end conducted in complete silence .

The mayor, the deputy mayoress ( the token female presence ) and the convener of the Village Fleuri Committee are all to be found , wine glass in hand , at the front door . '' Bonjour Ongoose. Ca va Wilfee ? " Much shaking of hands . The mayor looks approvingly at the two bottles of 2009 Pauillac that I'm carrying . France are through to the rugby finals so everyone in a good mood.

Conversation stops for the Fijian and then the Welsh anthems . Even the five year olds hold their peace . Old fashioned French style courtesy . The Fijian national anthem has a certain innocence to it . The mayor hums along , atonaly , to the Welsh anthem . It's " ze land of my father '' he informs me . I nod and offer to top up his glass . He smiles . At my feet Wilf has fallen asleep, head resting on his front paws . Before the morning is over he may get a sliver of croissant from the deputy mayoress or perhaps some undercooked cheeseburger.

Saturday morning

We venture out after dinner to sit on the village green and watch , or in Wilfs case listen to , the pilgrims as they stroll through the village on their way to Spain . An old couple from Grenoble turn off the lane and wander over to him. The man strokes his head, the woman holds his paw. Their dog lasted four months with cancer . The woman kisses Wilf and says ' bon courage ' . Forget what you hear about the French being aloof . You cannot be alone in France if you have a dog .On our way home the fire hydrant christened in a peremptory way . Some routines must never change .

This morning is rugby morning , both France and Scotland playing .( Scotland are playing England - fellow Scots will understand what that means). By the time the sun has risen the parking area by the village hall is full . Young farmers and their offspring are sprawled on the grass in front of the war memorial. Around them a trail of identical Jack Russells walking backwards and forwards , into and then out of , the salle de fetes . Mischief in motion .

I can hear the Marseillaise being sung and shouts of ' allez les bleus '. Time for Wilf and yours truly to grab some champagne and head over to join everyone else .