I awoke this morning early, and looked out to see an owl floating about below tree level in the field opposite. It was a crystal-clear pre-dawn sky, so I could see him very clearly. Eventually, he sat on one of the fence posts, and vomited. It’s the way they get rid of the inedible bits after a good meal. I’ve seen the evidence of it all over my lawnmower at the end of a winter, but I’ve never seen an owl actually doing it before. It took him about two seconds, after which he did that Satanic head-swivelling thing, and then flew off. Quite incredible.

There was no going back to bed now, so I sawed up some more wood from what used to be the first floor here, and put the fire on. I went outside to give the motor home a cuddle, but was immediately distracted by the extraordinary dawn light. It turns the grass a vibrant but deep emerald colour when it’s like this, and there’s a magical ten minutes or so when every cloud becomes a pink punctuation of the thinned-blue sky. The best mornings in the Spring here are living proof of the Buddhist maxim “Everything is in transition”. I sat on a battered old plastic chair, resplendent in dressing gown and socks, to watch it all take place. Then I thought ‘Don’t be daft lad, it’s f**king freezing’, and went back inside.

It really is Spring now. There were geckos darting about this afternoon, and the Lot is like one wildflower tableau full of cream, pink and white blossom in the fruit orchards. The builders arrived slightly late, but they’d been watching the early light as well. We talked about it for a few minutes, and then they continued the process of chucking 3 square miles of tongue and groove out the windows. Undeterred by the noise, a large buzzard took over from the (by now, I assume, fast asleep) owl in gliding and fluttering and swooping in my neighbour’s field. Suddenly, it dropped like a stone. This is always the prelude to a kill.

So it proved. No more than a second later, the bird took off again with a wriggling thing in its claws. One small rodent had arisen this morning to think ‘In’t life brirrant, eh?’ and was now off to meet an unpleasant end. Life’s like that in the wild.

At the epicerie in the village, there was the usual morning gathering of old ladies bent double, farmers filling up their en vrac plastic wine cans, young mums carrying off unfeasible amounts of bread, and the odd local official trying to look concerned about people’s problems. The mayoral election here is in two weeks time, and we still don’t know who the candidates are. I was briefly in a car the other day with my neighbour Ange (who is always close to what’s happening) but even he claimed not to know the identity of the wannabe pols.

Then it was off to the dentist again. I have another appointment in ten days to check implant progress and – if all is well – I’ll get some temporary choppers so I can at last stop trying to suck steak to tenderise it, or gum olives into submission. And just after lunch, there were cheques to write. I’m writing rather a lot of cheques at the moment, which is perhaps why my bank rang later this afternoon to request a meeting this Monday. As I’ve been taking advantage of what had been the euro’s weakness against the Pound to transfer money over here and have cash flow for those who prefer to be paid, ahem, in cash, perhaps Credit Agricole have now got me down as a drug-money launderer. Or a good mark for some investment scam. I’m looking forward to the lunch, and the inability of the salesperson to sell me anything. Trust me, there really is such a thing as a free lunch if you’ve been around the houses a few times.

For the rest of the day, I did some research on a building story….but mainly I pottered about. There’s a great deal to be said for pottering about: one gets thoughts about how to use what others might see as scrap wood, one snips away at old woody stems on herbs and lavender plants, or even entertains grandiose ideas about constructing a small water area in which pond life might thrive. Around the water feature, I could put special gnomes bearing fishing rods and a resemblance to the likes of Jeremy Hunt and Ed Balls. I could buy a gun and take pot-shots at them. And also perhaps at the gnomes.

It’s pitch black here now, and the temperature’s dropping. The fire’s on in the main sitting room, and a bacon, onion, broccoli and kidney bean curry is on the rickety old stove. It’s almost ready. The bottle of La famille Ventous is open (€3.55 at Leader Price). Enjoy the weekend: I’m off to Cahors for some fun.

Earlier at The Slog: Grooming the witnesses…the Max Clifford trial inside track