The maize in the fields is now as tall as me, and Biff and I have a new game - dodging the long-armed irrigators that early morning and evening, send giant arcs of water soaring across the green and blue horizon.
On one of our favourite walks the farmer has positioned the irrigator on the narrow grass track close to the edge of the tall green field. This means we have to judge the moment and then run by as quick as whippets in order to avoid a drenching, should the rotating pipe suddenly swing in our direction. Sometimes, we wait for a good few minutes watching the white water - often framed by a rainbow - soar across the blue horizon before being able to pass by.
Returning from a walk early on Saturday evening, I find my noisy neighbour hanging out of his window, bare-chested and smoking a cigarette.
'Ca va?' he says with a lazy smile.
'Ca va bien merci,' I reply, avoiding eye contact.
'When are we going to have that aperitif?' he asks.
'I'm very busy at the moment,' I reply. (This never sounds convincing in rural France.)
Ten minutes later, I am grilling a venison burger for Biff's dinner when the doorbell rings. It is my neighbour (now wearing a t-shirt). He wants to borrow some ketchup and tomato puree to make a bolognese sauce - or at least that's what I think he wants as he speaks with a very thick accent.
'Please don't forget to bring them back,' I say sternly, as I hand over an almost empty bottle of ancient ketchup and half a tube of tomato puree.
'Bien sur,' he says, with another languid smile. 'Bon appetit eh?'