Down the road, evening (oops, nearly a month this time...)

Little Maele wears his first combinaison du travail, not the usual blue but smart dark green with white trim, perhaps because he is a commune worker's child, not a farmer's...

Down the road, evening

Wondrous: out at nearly nine, albeit scarved and gloved and hatted; two songthrushes syncopated singing; a chorus of smaller birds; Ludovic's fireplace an orange lantern; being still here, doing this.

Down the road early evening

We can walk at evening again, and setting out, I see the year's first swallow flying over the village, though we'll come home gladly to a fire and hot soup.

Up the road, afternoon

I was reluctant to walk, the day grey and cold, but halfway round I look up at Bel Air, seeing it softly illuminated, a glow and colour not unlike primroses.

Up the road, morning.

Sun sun sun at last, and sharp cold.  A strange blend of haze and clarity; the white shapes of  grain silos and water towers hang in blueness like heavenly cities.

Up the road, afternoon (earlier in the week).

The three daffodils by Brochain's, always early, nodding westwards, make me hanker for travel and movement.  Almost.  But there is home, and warm evenings, and fires still to be enjoyed.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

A flock of seagulls, myriad white flickering splinters against the black sunlit water.

Spiny livid coils of new gunnera leaves push up from the slimy decay of last year's growth.

Up the road, late afternoon.

Below the known fields the pool's dark mirror shining, catches always; the tall spruce standing opaque sentinel between.

Lone bird leaves on winterwood branches; the blue smoke rising at evening.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

Stray shoots of cotoneaster are a firm deep green, woven with egg-yolk yellow blossoms of kerria, blood red winter stems of dogwood against the water, a surprising tapestry of colour.

Up the road, early evening

The road is a stream-bed with melt-water, rippling tarmac. Molly's paws go plip-plap.

White mist rises from snow, which looks like someone has scraped patches of colour from the landscape.

Up the road, early evening

The cloud hiding the setting sun is truly anvil-shaped, flat-topped, blunted into a wedge one end, drawn to a point the other, and backlit by an orange glow.

Happy Christmas.

Down the road, early evening.

My fifty-first year to heaven.  We crunch the cold hard-frosted leaves and mud-iced ruts; my right thumb hurts its winter hurt.  A solitary grey heron beats over the further field.

Up the road, afternoon

The birdsong from Victor's apple tree sounds exotic in intensity.  Robins' voices seem to grow more full-throated, richer as the year closes; is this why they are on Christmas cards?

Up the road, late afternoon.

This north wind which brought us hail and light snow early this morning is ear-achingly bitter.  We hurry home to a fire, hot food, and an extra hour in bed.

Parc de la Corne de Cerf, Lamballe, afternoon

The second fruiting green figs by the path can wait another month before picking for pickling, but there are plenty of chestnuts, larger and cleaner than our local wild ones.