A very French night.

All things shall pass. Even voles. After an uncomfortable 48 hours Wilf and the dessicated rodent have finally gone their separate ways . Usually we would give him a food free 24 hours to let his stomach settle but with diabetes that's impossible . Today normal service has been resumed. The family fellow joins me for the croissant run into town . The beer and absinthe set at the cafe look up from their pre-breakfast card game and greet him with a hearty '' Bonjour Wilfee " .

Mid-Sunday morning . Monsieur Bozo's septic tank cleaning truck arrives . €179 to clear out two of the old fosse septiques that the builders uncovered last week . '' Sunday rates mate " says the driver / operator when I ask him how ten minutes work could cost so much . ' But you were supposed to come on Friday ' I reply. '' Take it up with the office mate " and with that and a shrug of the shoulders he goes .

Three accordionists sitting on the village green playing until gone midnight. We sit on the terrace, eating dinner and listening to the music . Pintade au Banyuls, poireaux grilles followed by poire rotie, sauce au vin et noix de pecan . Wilf lies asleep under the table his paw on my foot . Not a cloud in the sky . A very French night .

Behold a star !

Another warm, cloudless , start to the day .We always ask for four breakfast croissants but this morning we get given five . When I point out the mistake the lady behind the bakers cash till holds her forefinger to her lips and whispers " It's for Wilf ". Yours truly doesn't have the heart to tell her that the last thing Wilf needs after eating a vole is a full butter croissant .

The builders have found the foundations of another house under the gravel of the forecourt . '' What do you want us to do with it ? " asks the jovial foreman . Angus bites his tongue .

Saturday night. The village is holding an impromptu party to celebrate the French rugby teams victory over Wales. The total population of the commune is 67 but there must be at least three times that number spilling out of the village hall. All the components of a memorable night are in place . On the petanque court Monsieur Bay can be seen dancing with Madame Bay. He is waltzing, she appears to be doing something that requires a lot of arm movements. Around them the village pre-schoolers are creating havoc.

At one end of the salle des fetes the mayors wife is singing '' the answer my friend is blowing in the wind '' on the karaoke machine . At the other end a disco ball has been suspended from the ceiling and two heavy duty speakers are pulsing out hits from the 80's. Kelly the hover dog is settled in a corner by the kitchen as is Hugo the bad tempered Maltese. The Jack Russells, hurling themselves relentlessly out of the village hall windows, ignore them . Around the barbecue the farmers and their offspring are flipping burgers. Novelty rooster hats are much in evidence.

As we turn in for the night ' the font ' notices that it's as bright as day outside . The old farmer has switched on his 10,000 lightbulb Christmas star. Pilots on night flights into Toulouse airport will now have a much easier job .

Never dent the enthusiasm just redirect it .

Whatever it was had long curvy tail. Before I could shout out ' No ! ' the end of the tail was just disappearing down Wilfs throat. A look of unrepeatable jubilation on his face . Dessicated vole . For a dog, nothing, but nothing , like it . Wilf lies behind me on the kitchen floor as I make the coffee . Content with life and his lot. ' The font ' has been warned that there may be ' vole ' trouble ahead .

In the window of an antique shop in London earlier this week a nineteenth century dress . It's made out of the same original William Morris material that used to be batoned on the walls of the flat in Edinburgh . Now, apparently, very rare. The new owners of the flat ripped off the fabric, smashed the William de Morgan tiles and papered over the original Ashby wallpaper . A hundred years of history gone in a flash . If they knew the price of the dress they'd be having second thoughts.

Lava lamps. I phone ' the font ' to suggest that I bring one home . For some reason this idea is met with less than wild enthusiasm . '' We need a clock for the kitchen. Why don't you look for one ? " comes the reply . All those years of child psychology - never dent the enthusiam just redirect it - now directed towards Angus.

The salle des fetes a riot of red, white and blue flags for this mornings France-Wales rugby match . Amid the parked tractors and white vans a mobile 'throw the hoop over the ring' and ' shoot the duck ' stand . Seven thirty in the morning but there's already a queue of little farmers waiting to have a go. The Jack Russells are leaping in and out of the windows. Amid clouds of drifting smoke the big farmers are setting up the barbecue. Vole and the possibility of some underdone cheeseburger . What a way for an old PON to start his day .

It works.

For the princely sum of $5.90 we have another years access to Google .

This is the view of the rickety old farmhouse from the village green this morning . Mist ! Another sign that our Indian summer is drifting to a close.

After a difficult night Wilf managed a circumnavigation of the box hedge around the war memorial, visited the fire hydrant and is now sound asleep .

Blogger Problems.

Three attempts to post pictures this morning . None are succesful . According to the note on the screen we've filled up all the memory on our Google account . Normal service will be resumed as soon as Angus can work out what to do. Technology and Angus are not natural bedfellows so this may not be until tomorrow .

Three words.

In a dogs compressed life you see the changes . Falling asleep in unexpected places . Staggering when lifting a leg. Turning left when he's always turned right. Yesterday, irritating growths under his left eyelid. An ever attentive young vet sees him straight away. Twice a day insulin injections. Nose, and now eye drops, morning and evening . No complaints. Just a gentle , unhurried , drifting .

The question has started to crop up more frequently. Time to say goodbye ? Not if you saw him devouring lunch , scuttling through the grass or gently taking a biscuit from one of the young builders. He's a fighter. A comic through and through . Sheepdogs must have a dominant gene that keeps them guarding their flock. That and a passion for sausages, coconut ice cream and illicit Jaffa Cakes.

On our evening walk we meet the really , really old farmer. 89. He asks after Wilf. '' Is he eating well ? ". ' Three times a day and more if he could ' I reply . He nods , thinks for a moment, laughs then says : " Love is patient " .

Funny . You spend your life hearing words, reading words, speaking words, writing words. Then you come across a farmer who sums up what it means to have an old dog in just three of them .

Slaughtered Italian .

The French air traffic controllers are a bolshie lot. They were having yet another of their impromptu one day strikes . When British Airways finally got to Toulouse the Frontier Police were working to rule . The queue at immigration stretching back to the gate . The line comprised the entire population of Paris with yours truly at the very back . It moved very, very slowly . So close and yet so far .

Wilf and ' the font ' were waiting patiently at the cafe in the arrivals area. ' The font ' had chosen a table right on the concourse. Wilf was underneath it, asleep on his back, emitting snoring sounds from one end and intermittent trumpeting sounds from the other . The delayed effects of a broccoli and beans diet . Angus had liberated two Oat Crunch biscuits from the plane . PON favourites which were gratefully received .

Home to find that the workmen have unexpectedly uncovered septic tanks number 5 and 6 . The gravel in front of the house a mass of trenches and exposed pipes. '' You've got quite a collection . Perhaps you could open a museum ? " says the jovial foreman . The humour of living in a septic tank museum passes Angus by.

Over dinner ' the font ' reads out the menu from the new pizzeria that's opened up in the little market town . The salmon pizza with cream, tomato and cheese proof that only the French know how to really slaughter Italian cuisine. Wilf liked the sound of the chicken pizza with goats cheese and honey .