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Down at the allotments again in the early evening . Here is a fire in the hedge spreading to the shed. Suzanne is calling out   au secours, au secours and I run over. A little smouldering --a little creeping flame along the dry grass at the base of the hedge . It could reach the shed. It is speeding up. It`s because Suzanne of the beacon red hair insists on putting a match to the pile of dirty chicken bedding. Put it on the compost heap or just leave it to rot, I have told her many times. Mr Sarbontier says it`s best burnt she has answered just as many times. Now old Mr Sarbontier is here, he is puffing and huffing and has called the Pompiers. Sure enough, as the blackened grass sets up a snaking glow and the foot of the shed begins to char I can hear the siren.

Down the narrow path come 2 men  with a portable pump and hose. They shake hands with Mr Sarbontier and comment on the weather. English are not the only ones I can tell you. They chat a bit, not a glance to the creeping fire; they shake hands with Suzanne then with me; they know Suzanne's cousin Danielle so they gossip a little about her. The side  of the shed is burning well now.  Oh La La,  they say at last and saunter to the river`s edge, peer down the mud steps and - Oh La La, phhhhhh! One sidles down the bank and plops the filter end of the thick hose into the running stream. The pump generator sputters, the pump, small enough to be held in the arms  starts to hum and a jerky flow of water judders out of the top end of the hose. One of the firemen ambles to the smoking shed without the hose,  picks his nose meditatively and then strolls back to fetch the hose which he directs with half a heart along the hedge, the grass and finally at the shed. After 3 minutes there remains just an acrid, eye watering twirl of smoke and one blackened shed panel. The pump whirrs to a standstill. Pompiers light up their cigarettes promptly .  To end the entertainment  the process of handhaking starts all over again. Au revoir, au revoir and thank you.

Mr Sarbontier, Suzanne and I sit at the rickety garden table and agree that we should have just thrown a few litres of river water over the fire. They look at me nodding because they know that it would have been me clambering up and down the bank with the buckets.........