Sorting the wheat from the chaff

A thrilling day of housework and gardening, finishing with an impromptu meeting at the school with the headmistress. They are concerned that the kids 'still' don't speak French and have called in the school inspector for help. I was hoping the kids would pick French up a bit more quickly than has proved the case, but I'm not sure seven days of school is enough to tell whether a different approach is needed.

The inspector has recommended a school in a nearby town which is for recent immigrants and focusses on teaching French, rather than normal schoolwork. Sounds ideal really, and I know I should be (and am) grateful that the teachers are taking such an active interest in my kids' progress rather than just letting them while away their time quietly at the back of the class, but I came away feeling a bit down.

I sort of hoped we were over the first hurdle: dealing with that first level of officialdom with my limited French, and I could have a rest until I have to brush off my plumbing and plastering French when the renovation begins. Now we will have the logistical difficulty of an awkwardly located school, and the kids will have that scary first day at school all over again.

My glum mood was somewhat lifted by a delightful sunset and the late night arrival of my Australian cousin stopping off on her way to walk over the Pyrenees.

Here's some barley (not wheat).