The weather forecast in the local newspaper is positively apocalyptic. The map shows jet black clouds , interspersed with angry red and yellow lightning bolts , positioned directly over our little piece of paradise . " 90 kilometre gusts and heavy rain " it cheerfully predicts. Angus rushes outside and hastily cuts the lawn . The sun then beams down all day. There's cloud but not even a hint of a breeze. Perhaps the storm will come later in the week .
The old medieval pilgrim hostel in the little market town is being renovated . A year or so ago we'd toyed with the idea of buying it and turning it into a restaurant . Now , the two old sisters who offered to sell it to us at a vastly inflated , central Paris price , have finally given up and sold it to the municipality for next to nothing . It's being turned into flats for single mothers . The facade plastered a rather fetching rich cream colour. What , if anything, goes into the shop on the ground floor remains to be seen .
At the supermarket Angus buys a dozen macaroons. He also buys a watermelon . '' The first of the season " the sign says. This happy shopper can't help but think that the watermelons look rather small.
The supermarket car park has been covered in solar panels. A dense forest of steel supports and beams replacing the graceful plane trees. Workmen are installing neon lights. What's cool and shady in summer is going to be gloomy and dismal in the depths of the winter. A cynic might wonder if the value of the solar power produced in summer is going to be greater than the electricity bill in the winter.
' The font ' has returned with a brush and ink sketch of the Queen done by an Italian artist in the mid '50's. Angus thinks it looks sombre. ' The font ' disagrees . It goes in a guest bedroom .
Summer in France Profonde.