Seven thirty at night. The old farmer arrives at the front gate. Open toed sandals, brown trousers, brown check shirt ( unbuttoned ) and brown pork pie hat. Colour coordinated chic . He's off to see his sister in Brittany. '' While I'm away could you keep an eye on the house and water the plants on the terrace ? ". Our old neighbour is tempted by the offer of a glass of champagne but is keen to get on the road. We stand in the middle of the lane and wave as he and his ancient motorhome, unmatching chintz curtains billowing out of the back windows, accelerate down the lane. When he reaches the bend he beeps the asthmatic horn three times , waves out of the window and then disappears out of sight.
It's already hot in town this morning. The umbrellas up at the cafe under the arcades. One of the beer and absinthe set has shown up in nothing more than her pink dressing gown, pink slippers and hair net. One of Gods gentler, less complicated souls. She must be feeling the heat. The first of the fresh hazelnuts in the greengrocers. The hay trucks all bundled up and ready for market. A lazy summers day lies ahead in deepest France Profonde.