Down the road, afternoon.

The wheatfields beside the road have alot of barley mixed in; it is taller and hairier than the wheat, and give the field a disheveled look, like a bad haircut.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

'the languor of noontide that gathered the thunder...'

It must rain soon.

Scent of rugosa roses, buddleia, and cut grass drying, a frog croaks at the water's edge, warm breezes.

Down the road, morning, very early (Monday 30th)

The sun's bright copper globe is momentarily cloaked as it rises in a mist of its own making.

By the time we turn around, the light is clear and golden.

Up the road, afternoon.

I sit cross-legged on the dry earth between the maize rows writing. There's little sign of mirabel fruit in the hedge, only young pale green soft hazelnuts, and bramble flowers.

Down the road, afternoon.

I look and look in the direction of the sound, but can't see the skylark, only specks in front of my eyes. Finally I glimpse it, dropping down the maizefield.

Up the road, evening.

I wear my new sandals I'm supposed to be saving for best, so I can admire my toenails, newly painted dark brown, they look like chocolate dragees, or ladybird spots.

Up the road, afternoon.

Marcelle's garden reminds me of A A Milne's dormouse 'who lived in a bed/Of delphiniums blue and geraniums red', without the geraniums, but the delphiniums are surely very blue...