The Monday night town council meeting in the village hall. The formal letter of complaint about the ' desecration ' of the church frescoes read out and approved. It will be signed by the mayor and sent off to the prefecture today. A lengthy discussion about what action should be taken about the very old farmer and his illicit draining of the village pond. In the end it's decided that he too should get a letter. The contents of the letter will be discussed at next months meeting.
Into town for the morning croissants. Ellio, the patriarch of the womens cooperative llama herd, has got out of his pen and is standing in the middle of the road eating the pelargoniums from the teachers hanging baskets. Ellio looks happy. The hanging baskets less so.
Off into the countryside in the afternoon. ' The font ' spots a pristine front garden with a carefully arranged tableau of what appears to be a school. Why there are two teachers, two blackboards and two desks in someones front garden is not obvious. Must be a French thing. Garden gnomes are probably easier to maintain.
Homeward bound we pass the local nuclear power plant. Underneath the reactor towers a small Chambres d'hotes. ' The font ' christens it : Hope springs eternal . Angus thinks ' glow by night ' might be more appropriate. We wonder how many visitors they get.
The first chill morning of the year. Sweater weather. After breakfast we walk for an hour without seeing another soul. Down by the little stream a sheltered south facing field still home to a swathe of hardy sunflowers .
Off in the battered old Volkswagen to the county town . The town hall wrapped up in pink wrapping paper for a wedding. The wrapping paper looking damp and decidedly unromantic after bearing the brunt of an overnight shower.
A restaurant advertising its speciality ' the foie gras club sandwich '. The attached newspaper article explains that the chef uses sliced bread and has opted to dispense with the chicken filling in order to make room for a third layer of foie gras. In fact all relationship to a club sandwich seems to have gone. Perhaps they should call it ' sweetness on toast '.
By the car park a sign on a church. ' In memory of Andre Delacourte ... killed for France in this church on October 9th 1943 ' . Assassinated in a church ? Sometimes you wish signs would tell you more.
Back to the last day of the neighbouring villages pottery festival. Pitoux, the very old character laden dog, is standing in the middle of the market square. This being France people bend down to speak to him. He pointedly ignores them all. Canine ennui. He has the wizened , no nonsense , look of a dog who will only acknowledge strangers carrying sausages.
The annual pottery weekend in a local village. Bright sunshine brings out the crowds. Sixty stalls and three or four hundred people. Temperatures more like August than October. Some of the pottery with truly hefty price tags.
It could have been a disaster. Pitoux - the potters old, grey muzzled, heavily eyebrowed dog - proves to be highly territorial. The flouncing arrival of a large, fluffy, supremely arrogant Persian cat brings out the worst in Pitoux. One minute the old fellows under the table having his chin tickled, the next he's in full chase through the tressle tables. Hissing cat, barking dog, tottering ceramics. For a moment time stands still. Pitoux and the Persian locked in a noisy and risky navigation of the market place. Silence falls, the crowds sharing the same image of broken pots and irate potters.
With a heroic leap the Persian vaults a wall and disappears into the town hall garden. Pitoux , victorious, wanders arthritically back to his place under his masters table. One happy old warrior . Completely oblivious to the near chaos he's caused. A visiting lady in a crimson dress and white hat, probably Parisian, claps . Others join in. Pitoux has a look on his face that says '' this boys done good ". The potter attaches a rope to Pitouxs collar.
Thank God for dogs. Lifes natural ( and sometimes ever so slightly grumpy ) jesters.
No sign of Madame Bay. No sign of the plumber. No sign of the workmen to remove the four large reels of red tubing in the middle of the village green . No need to worry - there is always next week.
The jovial workmen in rubber waders return. They have been sent to find out why the level of the village pond has fallen by a metre and a half. With the last of the bindweed cleared away they discover a hosepipe running from the bottom of the pond up the grass bank that leads to the very old farmers tractor shed and then onwards to his irrigation system. It seems that the old fellow has dealt with the drought in his very own , highly illegal, way.
Two artificial cows have been installed on a freshly tilled patch of ground behind the supermarkets milk dispensing machine. Very lifelike. Very odd. Very French.
The Nobel Committee have awarded the European Union its annual Peace Prize. '' How odd " I say to ' the font ' over breakfast. ' Could be odder ' comes the reply. ' They could have awarded it the economics prize '.
The workmen come to lay a new power supply to the village hall. One huge drum of electric cable , four large rolls of red tubing and a mechanical digger deposited unceremoniously in the middle of the village green . The workmen then leave. The mayor , who has been pruning the acacia trees, scurries across to ask them when they'll be back. The workmen shrug their shoulders.
Time to clear out the village pond. Two large and very jovial gentlemen in rubber wadders arrive after lunch. They fill the back of their truck with bindweed. The frogs grumble noisily and hop off into the surrounding fields. Thousands of them. Almost like a small biblical plague. A touch of the pharaonic here in deepest France profonde.
This is good for a smile on a Friday morning . ( Go to the 3.00 minute mark if you want to cut to the chase ) :
One minute to five.Three morose lads appear,unannounced, on the upstairs terrace. They're carrying the errant dishwasher. '' Got your dishwasher mate " the more senior one says by way of introduction.They have considerable difficulty getting the machine through the door they so easily got it out of . The talkative one doesn't know what was wrong with it or what it has cost to repair. '' I'm pretty sure someone from the office will call you tomorrow ". With that helpful thought they leave.
Our last night in London . 'The font' finds a Scandinavian fish restaurant and trills with delight . Angus is just glad that the fish is cooked. He is also glad there is a lengthy winelist. Icelandic Skyr as a dessert. The first time he's ever had rye bread as a pudding. It will also be the last.
We decide to see a late night movie . '' Go to Looper. It's a blast " texts the youngest Cost Centre. The movie is something to do with criminals travelling back in time to kill themselves. We can't help but notice that the average age of the audience is about sixteen. If the noise level is anything to go by the audience enjoys itself immensely. Perhaps they understood the finer points of time travel.
Christmas corgis for sale in Selfridges. We stop and chuckle. A picture of the Queen at the hotel check out. Good taste or bad taste ?
Clouds this morning. We may get rain.
More travelling ahead of us. India at the end of this month . Stanford for three weeks in March . This brass nameplate on a door in London caught ' the fonts ' eye. A clue to what might come in May ?
