Down the road, evening

We appreciate the coolth, although I shiver.

I pinch a handful of untended, naturalised strawberries from Pierre's old front flowerbed; they are small, crunchy and intense as real wild ones.

Up the road, afternoon.

Outside feels like a centrally-heated room with the doors and windows closed.

At Le Boissy, a trough of bright purple and white striped petunias which look like miniature circus pavilions.

Down the road, early evening.

Back and shoulders ache from gardening and window cleaning, but it's nice to stroll. A soft buzz of invisible insects rises from the maize field, though there are no flowers.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

A middle-aged couple fishing, a Duralex tumbler holds down the pages of a magazine the man is reading. Further off, in the shade, a bright yellow plastic coolbox promises lunch.

Down the road, evening.

The sky from horizon to zenith is a muted rainbow, filled with the first young swallows learning to fly. A light haze gives the landscape a flattened, cut-out look.

Hill above Hénon, afternoon.

I have been out of sorts, distanced. The light through the chestnut leaves and the smell of pine and elder brings me back, that and the normal settling of things.

Down the road, early evening.

At the corner, we meet old Hélène, and walk back together, at a snail's pace. Molly is unimpressed, but I'm brought up to date on several matters of local gossip.