In the more than seven years we have been living here, I have always assumed that the small game birds which foolishly run along the chemin rural in front of our car their legs going nineteen to the dozen (you would have thought flying, or diving into the ditch alongside would be the safer option, but no) were quail. But apparently not.
Our neighbour stood on the veranda late one evening holding an opened package mistakenly delivered to them rather than us. We talked of the start of the hunt season and his six hounds. He stroked an astonishingly well-behaved Vita while she sat and gazed at him adoringly. As he departed, Bertie trotted happily alongside him, so much as to say "this man is much more fun, he'd take me hunting".
It was only afterwards that I remembered. This was the neighbour whose wife said our dogs had killed their goat. Whatever the truth, he at least no longer bears a grudge and a small feeling of relief touched my heart.
And it was afterwards that Tod and I had the conversation about the quail. I had said "caille" and our neighbour had disagreed, cupping his hands in the shape and size of the birds we know and using another word which we didn't recognise but thought began with a "p". So not quail. But what then?
An online French dictionary and a bird sound website gave me the answer: perdrix - partridge. I had imagined they were much bigger, more like a pheasant. It's those Christmas images of over-sized partridges perched in pear trees which confuse.
And their sound confirmed it. That chucking noise they make while standing on top of a clod of ploughed earth, so much as to say to the hunters: "come and get me". They are the most reckless of birds! Quail, I learn, are much more sensible and stay hidden.
The postman brought us two gifts that evening with his misdirected parcel - neighbourly peace of mind and a new insight into our local fauna.
... yelling his head off, running alongside the tractor with its harrow kicking up clouds of dust, daring the driver to bring his machine any closer.
I sympathise with Bertie's opinion.
The field, which used to be Serge's is now owned by the pig farm the other side of the valley. Earlier in the year, I watched nervously as the new owner's tractor cut deep furrows on land alongside our boundary that Serge had left fallow and I had assumed was ours. I indignantly looked again at the plans of the land we'd purchased and had to acknowledge he was right. His land comes to the point of the ditch at our gatepost. And he's going to take every inch of it.
The wire to our oh-so-necessary electronic fence lies in his field, not ours.
The tractor driver swings the harrow round over our boundary as it comes to the corner by the ditch. He is young, with heavy rimmed glasses - more like a medical student than a tractor driver. Not anyone I recognise. The pig farm owner's son maybe? We raise a hand to each other in greeting as he turns away up the hill.
Once he's finished I discretely move the wire back onto our land.
No doubt in a day or two he will come by again with the dogs' extra-special delight - pig muck - to spread over the field. From then on a fully functioning electronic fence will be essential, if we are to keep Vita and Bertie out of what they view as a gastronomic paradise.
I stir the saucepan with the sticky mixture of quince cheese bubbling gently over a low heat and the breeze is warm coming through the open door of the kitchen.
Tod's sourdough breads are cooking in the oven, filling the air with a yeasty, beery smell.
Later, as I rake up the conkers down at the cottage I am grateful for the shade of the horse chestnut tree across my bare shoulders.
The farms around are already cleared of their crops except for the sunflowers, which are scorched black and bent double. They too will be gone soon. And then where will the family of quails and the hare who sits on our chemin rural taunting Bertie hide from the guns that start in earnest next weekend?
We talk about going to our favourite crêperie this evening, to sit outside in the courtyard in the fading light - a rare treat this year. There won't be many more occasions between now and the end of September when she closes til next April.
In August, when friends stayed, we supped indoors, had soup, turned on the underfloor heating and worried that their summer-weight duvets were not warm enough. They left as the warm weather that vanished at the end of June coyly returned.
I have forgotten what it means to have to water the pots along the veranda every evening.
We regret our friends did not come in September. And then the muck spreader starts work in the neighbouring fields. And we think, lovely though the weather is, perhaps it was as well they didn't come this week!
Looking at the météo for today, there was this banner ad: "Ras-le-bol fiscal?" over a man with his head in his hands. I sort of knew what it had to mean, but hadn't come across the phrase ras-le-bol. So I looked it up.
Oh how appropriate! My dictionary tells me "(Colloquial) To be really fed up with. To be heartily sick of. Gloominess. Despondency. Dolefulness."
Yep, that just about sums up how we're all feeling about this year's summer in this part of glorious south west France.
Somehow the UK seems to be having our summer and we've got theirs. Friends talk delightedly on Skype about swimming in the sea (in the UK!) and not minding the occasional dull day, because the summer has been so lovely and warm and sunny.
When I was house hunting here I met an English estate agent who said she so enjoyed the certainty of the long hot summers. Not any more! At least those of us who live here all the time can fondly remember June. This year is tough for those who are just down for the holidays.
As I walked through the market this morning and the heavens opened yet again, a stall-holder muttered "putain" as she hauled an already damp plastic sheet back over her sodden fruit and vegetables.
This evening we are going to a concert in a chateau - in the garden if fine, in the entrance hall if wet - hence my check on the météo. Looks like we'll be in the hall.
Friends arrive from the UK in ten days. It'll be nice for them to have a cooler week here, after all that good weather at home. They may, however, just have to put up with a general slightly damp air of doleful "ras-le-bol" among the locals.
... heading for the village" said Tod, as the thunderclap hit directly overhead and the heavens opened.
So we considered Plans B, C and D, one of which at least was to stay at home and watch it all on TV. But it isn't often the Tour de France comes by, so in the end we packed waterproofs and I agreed to drive him as close as I could.
We forget just how empty this part of France is. Imagining traffic jams up to road blocks, in fact we drove sedately down into the village and parked behind the half dozen other cars on the verge. We wandered across to the barriers along each side of the street with a stern gendarme forbidding passage to the other side, found a space and watched "the caravan" roll through. Large garish floats alternated with fleets of cars from bureaucracy and the TV and radio stations. They had driven up from the foothills of the Pyrenees bringing the rain and thunder with them. Those on the back of open-topped vehicles were looking pinched and cold, struggling to keep their cheerful expressions as they flung their slightly suspect "goodies" at us.
For some reason the McCain float got one of the loudest cheers.
Still hankering after my lay-by where I thought I'd get the best views and knowing there was a good hour til the cyclists came through, I left Tod in the village and set out towards town, the road meandering between fields completely deserted except for the occasional small gathering of those fortunate to live on the route - a hay wagon set up for the best view, a family of three under an awning with their large television screen and satellite dish, a jolly late lunch party high on a terrace toasting me as I passed, a young gendarme, like a mother hen, fussing over her flock, telling me to get off the empty road and on to the verge, in case something came by.
I rounded the final bend and saw the lay-by in the distance, up on the crest of the hill. A cyclist, lounging alone on the verge warned me - I would be stopped by the next gendarme. And sure enough, there he was, barely out of his teens, collecting a gaggle of passers-by, forbidding them to walk on or to turn back. The cyclists were due within half an hour and he could not risk it. My lay-by with its sheltering trees was no more than five minutes walk up the hill; but to him I was obviously at least as old as his grandmother and too infirm to walk further.
So there I stood. And gradually the skies darkened and the rain drops fell. A battered van with an awning full of holes protected a family - grandmother and grandson playing snap while they waited. She beckoned to me to come under the awning, which I did with gratitude, not least to shield my camera. Three Dutch tourists were also encouraged to come and join us. From time to time a phone rang with an update: "They are through Monheurt. Just left Villeton ..."
And suddenly there they were.. a blaze of headlights in the gloom, coming over the brow of the hill alongside the lay-by where I'd hoped to be, a cavalcade of motorcycles and cars and in the middle a small bunch of what five, six maybe, cyclists, heads low over the handlebars, legs pumping as the rain fell steadily.
From then on, it was all a blur, eye to the viewfinder, click, click, click, knowing in the appalling light I would be lucky to get even one decent shot. Little time to think, no time to compose an image, just keep shooting and then they were gone. A rank of cars behind them topped with dozens of spare bikes.
A brief pause and then the peloton swept into view. A riot of colours, turquoise, reds, greens, somewhere hidden in the melee the man in the yellow shirt - yesterday's and the eventual overall winner. Again, so little time to choose anything to focus on. Just keep pressing the shutter button and hope something comes out.
And then so quickly they too were gone. We all hung around, reluctant to believe it was all over and then gradually started to drift away. I wished the Dutch tourists better weather. They said it was fine and, coming from Holland, they were used to it.
I started the long walk towards home knowing that Tod, down in the village, would be on his way through the back roads to meet me with the car.
And I think the young gendarme did me a service insisting I went no further. With our little group under the awning, there was no-one and nothing to obstruct my view of the curving road up to the crest of the hill as the Tour de France came by.
The leader at this point, Martin Elmiger, being chased by Arnaud Gerard
One of the motorcycle camera men. They must be tough, with that weight of camera, holding that position, for 200 kilometers in the rain
The Peloton - somewhere tucked behind the turquoise group of Astana riders is the eventual winner Vicenzo Nibali
Sadly, no moody black and white close-ups of bike pedals, wheels and strong leg muscles. In that gloom my camera was on 1,600 iso and the images are just too grainy to enlarge. Next time, maybe.
... on the road through town, each with a sign saying parking forbidden from Thursday evening to the end of Friday.
A notice on the main road warns the route will be closed on Friday from 11am to 6pm (woe betide anyone who doesn't know what's going on and has a plane or boat to catch).
The verges are being cut, balustrades are being jet-washed, the roads are freshly tarmacked (possibly too freshly, in a recent brief heat wave some of it looked suspiciously gooey), the white lines gleam from their recent repainting. Every small bridge now has red and white bumpers covering the railing ends facing south. The village beyond ours has suddenly sprouted new plant pots and parking bays through the centre.
And whilst France is being far less extrovert than the UK (who would have believed Yorkshire could be so giddy - yellow sheep and all) nevertheless there is a certain restrained celebratory air emerging. On the roundabout on the far side of Miramont there are four metal outline figures on bikes sporting T-shirts - one yellow, one green, one spotted, one white.
I've an eye on a nicely shady group of trees by the T-junction at the end of our ridge. The road sweeps up from the roundabout and quickly disappears over the brow of the hill. Nothing that will make the cyclists slow even a fraction, but the stretch is enough, hopefully, to give me some long shots of heads down racing towards me, quick close-ups of muscular arms and calves as they fly by and then a fleeting glimpse of lycra-covered bottoms cresting the ridge.
I'll drive as close as I can and then walk the rest, camera, sun hat and rucksack with water bottle, spare batteries and memory cards, a sandwich and if room a collapsible stool . The "caravan" passes for two hours before the cyclists, so there will be plenty to keep us entertained, but it might be a good idea to have something to sit on for the long wait.
Tod plans to wander down into the village and take up a seat at a table outside the cafe that normally is never open except late on Saturday and Sunday nights for the Portuguese who work the fields. He may find there is much competition for that seat.
All my best photos are always in my head and not in my camera, but I hope there will be something worth posting here after it's all over. I must confess to becoming a tad excited about the whole idea.
We warned our friends, and fretted before they came.
June is an untrustworthy month for a holiday. We've had the wood stove in the lounge burning on mid-summer's day before now. "Bring a sweater and something water-proof", we said.
And the month was glorious. They swam in water the temperature of warm soup. They sun-bathed. We took them on the boat for a leisurely cruise to the nearest restaurant and lunched under the awning, glad of the shade. In the evening light we leaned back to watch the aerial acrobatics of the swifts high above as we sat in the courtyard of our favourite crêperie. With the heat from the surrounding walls, the just-in-case-sweaters were not needed.
So they left content, their illusions intact that June in South West France is glorious.
July, on the other hand, everyone knows is reliable. First of July, summer arrives. At least, that's what the crowd of tourists in the small supermarket in Clairac on Sunday morning were trying to believe - all in their short shorts and gossamer-thin T-shirts. As I stood in the queue (smugly wearing my heavy winter jeans, long socks underneath) I could see the goose-bumps on the bare thighs of the woman in front.
Tod lit the fire (in July!) to watch the Brazil / Germany match in comfort and then went to bed unable to bear any more after the fourth German goal.
At night, we lie in the dark listening to yet another thunderstorm rolling through and in the day snatch moments between showers when the washing goes on the line.
The garden in July has never looked so green (or so full of weeds). The roses are still flowering, the veg patch bursting, the fruit trees laden, the water butts full and the watering cans unused.
I make apricot jam, do DIY, tidy my study. We visit Ikea in Bordeaux. The swimming pool cover stays firmly in place, the sun loungers stay folded.
The sunflowers and distant wheat fields glow against the grey-black of the banked up storm clouds overhead.
We're glad our friends chose to ignore our warnings and come in flaming June.
In the 1970's I lived in Brazil and I wrote home to my mother in the UK every week. Those letters became the story of my life there. In 2007 I moved to south west France. Not quite sure where "home" is, I have no family left in the UK. If I did, these words would be my letters home, capturing the first impressions of my life here, to share, enjoy and perhaps re-read in years to come.