Thursday, 31 December 2009

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

We slither and slide through wet leaf mould, and I struggle to find solace and grace in the peat-brown waters and sodden grass and paths.

I succeed, in some measure.

Saturday, 26 December 2009

Up the road, afternoon.

The distant hills are sharply defined, a dark, bruised blue.  Jays, raucous as scrapping cats, call from the firs, and a tiny olive warbler emerges momentarily in the willow hedge.

Monday, 21 December 2009

Up the road, late afternoon.

Black trees loom up out of a black road.  Car headlights look warm and pale golden against the bluish monochrome of the fading snow.  It'll be good to get home.

Saturday, 19 December 2009

Up the road, afternoon.

We manage by walking along the thawed out crown of the road, though Mol, with four-wheel drive, potters along quite happily on the packed down ice of the car tracks.

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

Up the road, early evening.

Why is it that the aged, faded rose and lavender in the sky, and the shadows in the hills that contain all colours and none, seem to promise something wonderful?

Sunday, 13 December 2009

Up the road, afternoon.

After flurries of grey snow this morning, my nameday is hard and clear as a draught of water now, the wind thin and cutting as we turn back into it.

Friday, 11 December 2009

Hill above Hénon, afternoon.

We walk along the tramlines between the small green blades of wheat, around the perimeter of two fields, first with our backs to the sun then into it.  Deeply happy.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon ( Thursday ).

This place is peaceful, set-aside, but the smell and sounds from the nearby pig farm taint the air.  I admonish myself for wishing I didn't have to think about them.

Tuesday, 8 December 2009

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

The small stream rumbles like a mighty cataract, and, though autumn seemed over, there is a last scattering of gold from oaks and hazels, even as the first catkins appear.

Monday, 7 December 2009

Up the road, afternoon.

I can't resist wading into the deep puddle on the corner, its water a cloudy pale terracotta.  That is when I discover there is a hole in my wellington boot.

Sunday, 6 December 2009

Up the road, afternoon.

Jackdaws, I count thirteen, in a ragged broken letter, uttering their friendly, plosive 'peouw-peouws'.  Unusual to see them over the fields; they live around Moncontour's church tower and walls.

Wednesday, 2 December 2009

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

The mosaic of fallen leaves darkens and evens to a mummified brown, patterned by line more than colour.

Two plastic bottles bob among the broken reedmace in the shivering water.