Must be some sort of holiday. Drove into the village and it was filled with British people.

Or maybe, the realtors have done their job so thoroughly that there are now more British living here full-time than French.

I really hate leaving the farm. Everytime I venture out, there's something new waiting to slap me in the face to remind me that I can't run away from the modern world.

At the end of my driveway this morning, there was Roger and his nephew pulling out his vineyard.

Thank you globalization.

A little farther down the road, I saw an old house someone was gutting and remodeling. I suspect it is a foreign owner, as the French don't seem prone to gutting a house before they move in. The roofers didn't put the traditional tiled roof on the house. They used some sort of faux tile sheets instead. I suppose that's the harbinger of the beginning of the end of quaint tiled roofs in southwestern France.

Thank you mass-excreted corporate uniformity.

Drove to another village and passed the new intersection on the main two-lane highway . . .the authorities kicked the gypsy village out in order to construct the new, improved, wider intersection. The modern, curbed intersection is perfectly suited for the placement of a McDonald's.

Thank you evil asphalt spreaders and SUV drivers who are demanding wider roads. (I really had to pull over my little compact to let a giant British-plated, right-side steering wheeled, Land Rover pass by me on the road this morning.)

I liked the gypsies . . .any group that can continue to free-range western society, thumbing their tribal noses at authority has my encouragement. One needs to have gypsies in the vicinity in order to blame for all the lost things. Otherwise that misplaced wrench becomes a painful reminder that you're getting old and forgetful.

Nothing too exciting coming out of the bergerie. This morning I fed the sheep their grain, then went and fed the dogs, cat and chickens. When I returned to give the sheep their hay, I saw Blanche standing up on her hind legs, her front legs on the gate, and I started laughing. She was such a large, bear-like apparition, staring intently at me.

It was a weird sensation. I had the strong feeling that she was trying to communicate something to me.

She never comes to the gate . . .she just waits near her feed bin for me to come fill it up. Biberon, on the other hand is the one who stands at the gate, hitting it with her front hoof, yelling at me.

Maybe Blanche was trying to tell me that I was late getting her hay to her. But I've been much later than I was today, and I have always found her waiting patiently.

I thought that maybe she was telling me that it was spring and it was about time I let the sheep out of the barn; but she didn't push me out of the way in an attempt to escape, so I don't think that was what she was getting at.

Animals communicate on a deep intuitive level that humans can't fathom; because we're so out of touch with the true core of our existence. I always feel that Blanche shows me the way . . . to just be . . .without thinking, without trying, without expectations. My large zen sheep who every now and then makes herself a looming presence in front of me in order to ground me.

Maybe that's what she was trying to tell me: don't drive into the village, it will upset you!