A venerable, if rather pompous and extremely smelly old gentleman. Not a permanent resident, but a visitor, like us, a paying guest also one might say, only his means of payment were, as it were, in kind.
'That will be the last of the goat cheese,' said Paul, as I spread the ambrosial product on my breakfast bread 'no more milk until next year now. The buc is here to make the babies.'
'When Paul came in after he'd brought him here,' said Yvette 'I told him to get out of the house until he's changed his clothes, he smelled so terrible.'
The funny thing is, although it's the nannies that give the milk to make the stuff, the billies smell like nothing so much as an very mature goat's cheese.
Very busy with work now for a bit, so likely to be a bit scarce here and chez-vous. Bear with, bear with.