There I was, in the sunshine, tottering on top of my 6 feet high and 25 yard long (well, 8 actually - like most blokes I'm always a bit optimistic regarding length) logpile, re-arranging the plastic sheet covers in readiness for winter's rain, with mad Sprocket tethered to an apple tree and grumpy Jock peeing over anything and everything, when a local farmer sauntered into view, walking down the lane behind the house. Naturally, I greeted him with a cheery "bonjour" and a friendly wave. And promptly lost my balance and crashed to earth.
My embarrassing tumble co-incided with the appearance of a couple of cows following the farmer, both of which immediately spooked, then reversed, no doubt causing a massive bovine traffic jam out of sight behind ma maison. The resultant cacophany of moo-ing, clattering of hooves and splashing of waste matter set Jock off into a barking fit as he sprinted towards the unseen action, further upsetting the beasties. Luckily, from my supine position face down in dirt and log bark, I was just able to rugby tackle the grumpy little sod before he reached his prey. By this time, Sprocket had not only joined in the barking but was also enthusiastically testing both the strength of his rope and the branch to which it was tied. So I threw both rabids indoors.
After a few moments I ventured back outside. The coast seemed clear. Panic over. Cows must have been and gone. So I clambered back onto the woodpile and, just as I was about to resume fiddling with plastic sheeting, lo and behold but who should once again appear marching down the lane behind our house? Yes, the farmer. Closely followed by half a dozen cows and calves. Only this time instead of waving, falling in a heap and causing a stampede, I merely nodded. And the farmer nodded back as he and his cattle marched steadily on.
However, unbeknown to the farmer, pandemonium was erupting at the tail end of his troupe. Some of the herd had broken ranks and were now galloping across the mayor's garden, scything down prize apple shrubs and anything else that stood in their way, hotly pursued by three panicking junior herdsmen waving long sticks and muttering "merde! merde!" as various cows, calves and a shagged-out bull left massive calling cards on the manicured lawn.
Wondering what the hell was going on, the farmer slowly turned around and could hardly believe his eyes. I heard "Merde!" but any other expletives were lost in the sound of clattering hooves as the front cows made a mad dash for freedom, joined by the rest of the herd that was now charging through the mayor's front gates, still hotly pursued by wildly gesticulating herdsmen.
From my high vantage point I then saw the farmer leap into his battered old Renault van and speed off round the church corner in a last-ditch attempt to stop the herd heading off to Felletin, scattering herdsmen as he crashed gears and burnt rubber. Mission accomplished, he then drove off in pursuit of his galloping herd and in-the-doghouse assistants as they disappeared out of sight up Poussanges high street.
There are some very pretty flowerpots and floral arrangements up that way. And some pretty avid gardeners, mostly mature women, none of whom I'd like to meet on a dark night and all of whom I should imagine wouldn't take too kindly to having their fleurs re-arranged without prior consent. Hate to think what happened next.
As peace once more descended, I glanced again to where the lane appears from behind our house. Giggling somewhat, I then imagined a postman cycling into view (a la Jaques Tati), followed by half a theatre horse (a la Clousseau), followed by a goose-stepping Nazi (a la Mr. Bean). Incidentally, we watched Mr. Bean's Holiday on DVD a couple of days ago and thoroughly enjoyed it. Mind you, we're mad.
