The weather has changed from cool to rather warm. The patchwork of fields are unmoved in the stillness of the morning air. The farm house is cool inside and the wall bricks start to absorb the morning heat. The house animals (caninds) stay close-by me, and are now sleeping on tiled floors, not wanting much except for the odd treat. Another dog has joined the pack, Freya, a sort of short legged collie with an attitude. The feral felines are separated into distinct social tribes. Minou the older one is always here, tail slipping in and out of my legs. The other two rarely appear, happy to slink and hunt in the barns where collapsing hay rolls displace small rodents.
In the evening Monou hides in long grass, suspicious of the crickets and frogs. Why bother with food when a full menu is available on demand in the grass.
So far so good. I have had two massages to help my back, having never had one in my 70 years. But not totally true, except for a weird experience in a hotel Ras Al-Khamieh when an Indian man had me standing in a loin cloth while what I assumed was oil was dripped onto my head. I smelt like number 3 and 56 on the take out menu. It took ages to wash off. I digress.
Back to the horses who now have worked out a method according to my horse whisperer. After the last episodes when only one horse had escaped and with my lower back pain threshold achieved, I decided to walk along the drive. And what did I see, and they did not even look ashamed, just a ‘we are in charge’ sort of look.
They had crashed another fence and walked (do horses walk?) up a hill and round the house, past the pool and found a field of wheat which they started to munch on and probably trample. Hashtag, never tell a French farmer about these escapades.
My skills at herding one horse are vaguely impossible but I do not trust these two at all so I retreated quickly to the phone and the horse help list which meant that my German friend Micha might be the first on site. The horses now advanced quickly towards me, indeed I had a vision of when the Commandant of Sandhurst rides up the College steps they might recreate that. I shut the farm house door and worryingly I could hear the horse licking and pawing the frame.
The gravel on the drive then announced the cavalry to assist with the round up had arrived, though by this time both equines had retreated to the vegetable garden, nibbling on overgrown vines. On hearing that we were approaching they moved, defiant awaiting the halters.
Fence repaired, horses sequestered AGAIN and I reiterate that as a house sitter, please no horses.
Back to the sunshine and who knows if they will do a Grand National and jump over the fences tomorrow. At least they do not stray far but they know the story now and have a well timed way of behaving!
Tall stories 
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