In the small hours of the morning the shrill cry of an owl, seemingly immediately by my open window, disturbed my slumber. So far off as to be barely discernible came an answering call. A duet ensued. Suddenly all was quite outside. Straining my ears I could just hear the distant correspondent. Eventually both birds’ cries could be clearly distinguished in the middle distance. The notes changed. Merged. Reached a crescendo. Then silence. As I drifted back to sleep, faint echoes reverberated. I thought of Eartha Kitt, that personification of the sex-kitten chanteuse. Her rendition of ‘Let’s do it (let’s fall in love)’ was a hit in the 1950s and beyond. Anyone who doesn’t know the lyrics and their connection with my reverie should find the song on Youtube.
When the team arrived after I had risen from my bed, Sofiene stood looking concerned at his car. Benoit crawled underneath the front of it and pronounced the damage minimal and easily reparable. I quipped that he was always underneath something. First the bath, and now the car. The story could not have been invented. For about 100km over several days, a cat had been heard mewing under the bonnet. Despite several searches, nothing could be found. Until Sofiene realised that a neighbour’s small kitten was trapped inside. Despite every encouragement, it would not emerge. It was in a plastic casing near the engine. He had to break the plastic to free the animal. It would not budge. Realising it must be hungry he offered it a sandwich. It refused. Sofiene moved away. The kitten licked it with evident lassitude. Sofiene tapped the casing in order to persuade it to escape. Finally it did. Naturally, I told my friend the tale of the swan in the braking system.
Partially refreshed by light rain, I walked the steeply undulating Pomport loop. As I neared the village, Fred, no doubt on his way to the bar, waved to me from his scooter. 
The racket made by ducks on the lake below the D17 was drowned by the deafening roar of a jet plane that rent the skies above.
Vigorous vines bear ripening fruit.
I did find a signal up at Pomport, but, surprise, surprise, the best one to be had is outside number 30 rue St Jacques, a couple of hundred yards from my house, almost the lowest point in Sigoules.
This evening, Mike is due to collect me to take me for a meal in Eymet. I will report on that tomorrow.
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