Only if we have these same high temperatures in November can we talk of an Indian summer

Call it what you want -- it still feels like summer to me. For several weeks temperatures have climbed to 32C, the cobalt sky is only punctured by the criss-cross of vapour trails from jets departing and arriving at Toulouse, and gardens are still dressed in flowers and sun-loungers.

The only nods to the coming autumn are the earlier and earlier sunset and the shadows which start to creep over the lawn by 6pm; but the warmth remains to allow outdoor dining into the small hours lit by scattered candles.

Pools stay uncovered as the lucky owners drift up and down to savour the memory for the undoubted cold days to come.

As a farmer, to Genevieve such weather is a blessing and a curse. The wheat to be harvested this week has thrived, but even with her own reservoir the constant need to water becomes costly, the electric pump on full duty.

Other farmers who should be planting rape-seed have given up as the earth is too hard on the machines and the expense of the water would mean little or no profit.

In rural areas like this the weather is an ever-present topic, with everybody consulting their favourite website for the five-day forecasts, which are never believed anyway.

The best and most accurate is Pleinchamp (full field), a service for farmers which those of us who only need to know if we’ll have to water the plants also consult daily.

M Dupont, now in his eighties, tells me the weather is very odd. “We don’t have proper seasons any more,” he says, glaring at me as if it were my fault. “All that rain in June and July -- unheard of. Hardly any storms in August. High humidity. Now this.”

To prove his point he is sweltering in his winter jumper and fleece. He will live according to the official season even if the weather is contrary and has forgotten its place.

“Last winter wasn’t normal either,” M Dupont continues. “Too warm. When I was a boy I remember walking through tunnels of snow to get to school. The snow was so heavy sometimes we strapped on skis to cross the fields.

“The ponds were always frozen over in December and we could skate on them before doing our chores. Now we get a scattering of snow which hardly marks the land, yet hail as big as tennis balls falls in June. Explain that to me.”

M Dupont has little time for global warming theories. He just knows that over the years the climate has changed so much that “c’est pas normale”.

Even the birds seem to sense something and I’m told many are still here that should have headed south two weeks ago. They’re flocking then dallying as if confused.

The heat is such that the field mice have stayed outside and haven’t started their migration into our houses to meet a grisly death via the sachets of poison one learns to tuck in suspect nooks and crannies.

The spiders, though, are scurrying through the still-opened doors and windows, taking advantage of the easy entry to lace webs off beams and dark corners, and the hornets attack wine glasses as if furious to see us still outside in the night.

Mosquitoes, fruit flies, wasps and a particularly vicious nipping fly have plagued many this summer. Because of its elevated position, Las Molieres usually has a gentle breeze which bats most away, yet even so my body shows a route-map of bites and lumps.

Last night the hissing buzz of a lone mosquito in my bedroom tormented me as it dive-bombed repeatedly, looking to feed. One neighbour has taken to sleeping “under the bride” -- his term for an old-fashioned mosquito net.

M Dupont and I discuss all this, both frequently using the click-clicking sound of disapproval much beloved of the French, or shaking our heads at the vagaries of nature and gazing into the distance as if to seek an answer.

“The boar numbers are down too,” he throws in, “but the hares are up. The deer and the coypu are multiplying. C’est pas normale.”

I solemnly agree and stare knowingly into the forest. I briefly consider telling him how fast I’d be out of here if the winters of his memory returned, or how much my extended tan delights me. Instead, I sigh heavily one more time and say, “Vraiment, c’est pas normale.”