Archaeological detritus.

The regional archaeologist is coming today. Monsieur Risottos recent excavations for the septic tank have unearthed a cannon ball, a piece of roman column, a section of rather unexciting stone frieze, a Napoleonic road marker and a strange pagan figure carved into sandstone. These now sit beside the well in the courtyard waiting to be studied and photographed by the 'authorities'. I somehow feel that this is not the end of the story.

For Wilf a day to bark at passing tractors and dream of bowls piled high with cauliflower cheese , fish pie and coconut ice cream. His weight is still falling so the vet has suggested that we mix together his diabetic kibbles with some of the previous low protein ones to see if that stems the weight loss.

The family fellow has now got to the stage where he doesn't like to go out alone when its dark. Come ten o'clock at night Wilf and yours truly can be found walking slowly up the drive and then even more slowly back. Dogs don't complain. Despite his failing senses the old chap has an air to him that says he's just glad to have the chance to love and to play and to look up at the stars.

Resolved amicably

A romantic start to the day. Off, bright and early, with 'the font' and Wilf to the cafe in the market town. 'The font' got an early morning coffee while Wilf got the crumbs from the bottom of the croissant tray. These were drizzled slowly into his mouth amid much lip smacking and nose licking. Wilf seemed delighted.

Since the start of the month 'the font' has been suggesting that we ( note the 'we' ) give up wine for a month. This act of self denial will supposedly be good for my health. Something to do with giving the liver a rest. Thanks to the stress generated by the blocked septic tank and the fuel leak from the Range Rover implementation of this ridiculous suggestion has been successfully delayed. Tonight there will be champagne. After that I will need to dream up some new excuses for prevarication. The most obvious is the upcoming Scotland / England game in the Six Nations. No way can that be watched without the help of a bottle of Bordeaux's finest.

As we're never in London it seemed sensible to let out the flat. The tenants an Australian couple. He something 'big' in a bank. She floral suited and seemingly jovial. This morning at six am , an e-mail :

Dear Sir: I am greatly disappointed to note that 1) There is a chip in the rim of one of the champagne glasses 2) there is one less egg cup than recorded in the inventory and 3) there are smear marks on top of the air conditioning vents in the hallway. I very much hope these matters can be resolved amicably.

This missive is forwarded onto the cleaners. Four busy and deeply devout Irish ladies from Sligo. They arrive at the flat, en masse, twice a week. What they will make of this woman standing on top of an eight foot ladder peering into the ventilation ducts remains to be seen. Must be some form of OCD. Wilfs attitude to the e-mail : " We have two ears and one mouth so that we can listen twice as much as we speak ".

993

Scotland go down 24 - 6 against Wales in the Six Nations Rugby. The team lethargic, error strewn and pacifist. Not even a 2005 Chateau Montrose can salve the pain. 'The font' emerges from the kitchen to ask if this ' is the thirty fifth or thirty sixth year in a row they've lost ?' . " You forget 1992 " I reply.

Volume 2 of the ' Life in Italy' blog arrives from the printers in the States. Better binding on this one. For some reason the comments are included . They weren't before. If you knew what to ask for and had the time and skills to format properly, you could end up with a really professional product.

A quick calculation shows that this is Wilfs 993rd post. One every day with a three week gap when we moved from Italy. Some days it's been a chore, other days the muse has been absent, but there hasn't been a day when laughter hasn't been present.

No workmen yesterday. Time to ourselves. With all the furniture in the hallway pushed to one side Wilf was able to play some touch rugby. He tired after eight throws of the ball , but boy, he gave those eight throws his all. Head down, top speed engaged, ears streaming behind and then a puppy like pounce. One happy fellow.

His carefree antics had the old floor tiles rattling away. The tiles were made here, on the farm, two and a half centuries ago. Maybe, one in four of them have a dogs paw print or a hens foot pressed into their surface. You can't help but imagine the frustrated farmers wife chasing the dog away with her broom, swearing profusely as the curious beast wanders across the racks of wet tiles waiting to be fired. Small, every day things of no interest to a historian. Long forgotten but still present. I'd like to think dog blogs are a 21st century version of those floor tiles.

Wilf is learning a different sense of time. One that depends more on small amounts than big ones. We're aiming for that fun filled thousandth post.

The star still shines.

No sign of Aude the decaratrice. Instead, Giles, the whistling builder arrives, unannounced, to rebuild the wall he accidently knocked down last week. Somewhere, somehow, he's unearthed a pile of matching eighteenth century bricks . By five thirty the replacement structure is finished. In the process one of the Anduze vases mysteriously broken. Around here that counts for progress.

With the septic tank trenches at last filled in it's time to get on the net and order roses for the garden from David Austin ( www.davidaustinroses.com ) and bulbs from Peter Nyssen in Manchester ( www.peternyssen.com ). Everything we wanted in stock and both orders despatched the same day. Delivery promised for Tuesday. We shall see. Most packages arrive in the post from England within two days but it has also been known to take five weeks.

Wilf seems to have settled into a routine of misty eyed contentment. After breakfast and a quick walk, he positions himself under the palm tree in the courtyard. From this vantage point he can supervise the workmen, bark at the post lady and monitor our movements. A routine of sleep, lunch and tickles. Canine satisfaction from knowing that only a few things are really important.

On the other side of the lane the old farmers Christmas star still shines, unseasonably, bright. On this side of the lane so does Wilfs.

Hope it soon washes off.

Wilf spent most of yesterday sunbathing. He can't see very much but he's worked out that if he sits in the middle of the courtyard then it's impossible for anyone to come in, or go out, without his knowledge . Yesterday, he only had Aude the decaratrice, the post lady and the DHL delivery man to bark at. In between, plenty of time to catch up on some rest.

A friend in New York calls en route to the Rugby 7's in Las Vegas. He says that Chinese per capita use of oil is set to rise ninefold over the next thirty years. The end result will be global production of 90 million barrels a day and consumption of 260 million barrels. Doesn't take long for the Scot in me to work out that somewhere along the line prices are going to rise or something disruptive is going to happen. Off with Wilf to look at an energy efficient replacement for the three year old Volkswagen. Problem with hybrids is that they still need gas and they sell at premium prices. We'd be better off paying €10,000 less and buying a regular petrol version. We'll wait to see what the electric cars are like when they go on sale later this year.

Apologies to the staff at the Nissan garage in Auch. A small white polar bear found that the SUV's parked on your forecourt had the worlds most interesting tyres. Hopefully, it will all soon wash off. The aforementioned animal has a tyre christening view on life - ' Don't wait for people to be friendly, show them how '.

Another reminder.

We've known for the last month or so that Wilfs eyesight was deteriorating. Over the last couple of days it has become clear that the macular degeneration has progressed .

As his sight clouds over there's a loss of some of his trademark self confidence. The old fellow is suddenly starting to trip over shrubs in the garden, stumbling as he climbs the stairs and bumping into furniture. The friendly, biscuit bearing, workmen swarming over the roof are now treated with throaty suspicion. Even the morning walk across the village green to the church has become difficult for him. He refuses to go out onto the lane without his harness on and one of us by him. When he wakes from his afternoon sleep by the front door a worried " where are you ? " bark. In the small hours of the morning one of us dashing across the garden in dressing gown and slippers as he heads off in the wrong , post 'pit stop', direction. His trust never more tangible.

The next stage on this journey. More than ever a time for patience and kindness. Some truth in the old phrase " If thou art a master, be sometimes blind; if a servant, sometimes deaf " .

That particular type of frosty silence.

Another hot day. Our fourth in a row. A little piece of August smuggled into February. Off for a walk with Wilf along the old Roman road. Not a car or a person in sight. We park under the shade of some old oaks and amble together towards the river. After five minutes he settles down in the cool grass . The family fellow won't be coaxed forwards, nor back. 300 metres, max, and he's not just tired, he's exhausted. Wilf waits there, dozing in the sun, while his chauffeur service returns with the car. A reminder that the cancer has turned an nine year old dog into an old one.

At lunchtime a change from low protein to high fibre diabetic kibbles. With Digby, his little brother, any change of diet or routine would have occasioned a diva like performance. " This tastes like soap! Why are you trying to poison me ?" For Wilf its food. He doesn't even hesitate .

The joiner has finished the roof on the pool house , the terrace wall has been replastered, the damage to the garage caused by a falling branch repaired, the trenches filled in ( after a fashion ), and new trees planted along the drive. The gutter repairman promises to finish the down pipes today. Aude and Sylvie have just about done painting the ceiling in the hallway. The grey undercoat has a wonderful lived in feel - a patina of age. The white top coat leaves me cold. It was perhaps a mistake to have voiced this opinion so late in the day. Angus knows women well enough to recognize that particular type of frosty silence.