One of the things I love about France is that, however much one becomes habituated to the part of the country in which one lives, there is so much more to explore, so much that still feels foreign.

That sense of foreignness was always part of the thrill whenever we visited our house in Normandy. Now that we have lived here full-time for more than eight years, that has worn off. To us, a house is something built from austerely grey granite, roofs are slate and the landscape is naturally crowded with dark oaks.

The average Norman farmer is squat and solid and over the centuries has built houses to match. The architecture around here is often brutal, always solid, sometimes magnificently monumental.

But drive a couple of hours and you're in another country.

Yesterday, we travelled to Saumur, on the south bank of the Loire river. Trish had read of a garden, Les Chemins de la Rose, four hectares containing 13,000 rose plants.

We left a grey Normandy, sulking under lowering clouds and stepped out of the car into 30-degree heat and blistering sun. It was as though we'd taken a plane to a Mediterranean resort. On the way, we'd watched the landscape, architecture and light change.

The landscape we found unimpressive - too flat with massive arable fields instead of Normandy's small, bocage-enclosed pastures. But there was so much light. The roofs changed to tile, the stones of the houses became paler.

The garden itself was wonderful. Some of the roses had already gone over, but there were enough in bloom to stun the senses. The grounds have been sensitively designed, enclosed on two sides by woodland with plenty of mature trees dotted among the flower beds to provide much-needed shade. Lily-covered ponds, ducks (with trailing lines of ducklings) and peacocks just add to the charm.

If the heat and sun hadn't lasted all the way back to Normandy, we might have suspected some kind of trick, as though we had, in fact, travelled to a foreign land. As it is, it has just given us a desire to see more of France. There are so many countries within the borders of l'Hexagone.

The day started well. While we were making breakfast, Trish noticed movement in the huge elder bush opposite the kitchen window. It's a bit early for the birds to be stealing the berries, so we looked closer.

Peeking between the leaves was the somewhat bemused face of our kestrel chick. Its identity was confirmed by the small, fluffy feather drifting slowly towards the lawn just in front of the bush. The chick had just made its first, tentative flight from the hole in the wall.

We don't know why the hole is there. It's up in the gable end. The opening is about 20cm square and it occupies maybe half the thickness of the wall - so about 20-30cm deep. It's common to see square holes on the outside of old, granite buildings in this area. They were used for wooden scaffolding during construction. But such holes are normally smaller and there are rows of them. We have just the one.

The kestrels don't mind there's only one. It's high and safe. They treat it as a cave and have used the hole as a nest every year for at least the past eight years. We know when the chicks have hatched because, from our bathroom, we can hear them screeching. Nor do chicks or mother mind us using the lawn directly below the nest. We often while away pleasant hours sitting in deck chairs watching the mother arrive with a vole or mouse and seeing the chicks tear it apart.

The real treat, though, is seeing a chick fledge. The elder and cherry trees opposite the hole offer a safe landing point for the short maiden flight.

This morning's chick is the kestrels' second brood this year. We think it's an only child - often there are two or three chicks crammed in that tiny cave.

As a pilot, I had great sympathy with its apparent state of astonishment as it recovered from the sortie. I remember my first solo very well - the sense of achievement and pride mixed with just a hint of having got away with something unlikely.

After wobbling about on the branch for a while, the chick tested its wings and finally took off, beating its way into the air somewhat inexpertly. It shed more of its fluffy baby feathers. Its feet dangled below as though it had forgotten to retract its undercarriage. (It might, of course, have been more professional than we thought. Test pilots, on the first few flights of an aircraft prototype, usually leave the gear down so as not to tempt fate by testing too many things at once.)

From our experience of past years, we expect to see quite a lot of this young kestrel. The recently fledged birds usually hang around the house, using the capped chimney of the lower barn as a resting place and hunting perch.

The practice of posting 'first!' (or, even more pathetically, 'second!') as a blog comment seems to be going out of fashion. It has been replaced by a habit every bit as stupid and, in some ways, even more revealing about the feebleness of the perpetrators.

Any blog post that contains stunning, unusual or fascinating photographs will, sooner or later, attract a comment that simply says 'Photoshop', or some close derivation. That's usually it. Occasionally, the comment poster might add something like 'fake', assuming that we are all as slow-witted as him/herself and won't understand the implication otherwise.

What you won't see is any form of explanation or justification for the sad troll's conclusion. Are there artefacts in the image that might suggest comping? Pixel mismatches? Perspective or lighting inconsistencies? Impossible conjunctions of subjects?

No. The truth is, this kind of poster is entirely ignorant of the signs that reveal Photoshop-enabled artifice. They are, almost to a troll, ignorant of what Photoshop can and can't achieve. (It's unlikely they can hold down jobs good enough to allow them to afford a copy, and they naturally lack the higher brain functions that would permit them to learn how to use it.) And, in the vast majority of cases where I see this, it's perfectly obvious to anyone with functioning synapses that they are entirely wrong.

In short, they have absolutely no good reason to whine 'Photoshop'. So why do they do it? 

What they're trying to say, in their own intellectually stunted way, is: "I'm smarter than all of you because I know this is fake and you all believed it".

This peculiar form of snottiness is a product of the Internet. On the Internet, no-one knows you're an inadequate loser with no skills, no IQ, no friends and no hope. Commenting in blogs is the one way these poor, benighted souls can bolster their otherwise minimal self-esteem, by attempting to make themselves seem superior to - for example - people who actually do have the skills and talent to produce fascinating photographs.

So take pity on them. They can't help themselves. But as bloggers, we are in a position to render assistance by guiding their comments gently but inexorably to the wastebin.

Archaeologists in France have discovered the oldest known bust of Julius Caesar - at the bottom of a river. Most busts of the Roman leader were made after his death and portray a divinely perfect man. This one is unusual - in fact, unique - in having been made during his lifetime. And it shows a 50-something man with wrinkles and a receding hairline.

Caesar was extremely touchy about his hair. The Romans were very unforgiving about physical imperfection. That's why Claudius was hidden away for so long, the shame of his family. Julius Caesar was taunted about his thinning hair by his enemies, and did his best never to be seen without a concealing laurel wreath.

Which raises an interesting question. It's one thing having one's imperfections revealed by a snapshot. But a laboriously carved marble bust? Was this produced by some kind of paparazzi sculptor?

It is possible that the owner of the bust had a bronze laurel wreath made to disguise the baldness. Roman women often had hairpieces created for their own likenesses, to ensure their busts were sculptures in the height of fashion. Nevertheless, the warts an' all style is intriguing. 

The French archaeologists have a number of ideas about how the bust wound up at the bottom of a river - perhaps, thrown there by the owner of the bust when it became dangerous to be associated with the dictator (possibly after his assassination); or discarded by someone with republican sentiments.

But is it possible Caesar himself was responsible for its disposal? Maybe they should take another look at that river bed. They may find a skeleton with a chisel in its bony fingers.

Maybe it's ironic. Or a prank of some sort. Putting a comedy politician like Boris Johnson in charge of anything would certainly suggest a sense of humour. But as Mayor of London? Come on, that's just not funny.

Not that I was ever entirely a fan of Ken Livingstone. He had the ability to act like a prat. When he did so, however, it was usually because he was pursuing an idea in which he genuinely believed. Ken was always driven by a desire to do the best for London, as he saw it. And he is a political player, a man who knows how to get things done and is willing to be unpopular (viz the Congestion Charge).

But Boris? Oh dear.

Of course, we live in an age of celebrity, an age in which image counts for more than ability. When it comes to choosing a mayor, it would appear that Londoners (and I used to be one of them) prefer someone who can make them laugh (as opposed to someone capable of tackling the problems of housing, congestion, public transport, polution, etc). I'm surprised they even bothered with a full-blown election. Maybe they could have elected him via a radio phone-in or a quiz in a woman's magazine.

I guess time will tell whether Boris turns out simply to be the affable, amusing but largely pointless buffoon he appears to be, or whether he can actually do the job. I'm not making any bets either way. I'm just glad that, after having lived in London for 24 years, I'm now a long, long way from the city.