Down the road, afternoon; rough winds do shake...

Victor's apple tree in blossom has been a glory, but now the petals whirl from the branches in horizontal clouds,  speckle the road and follow us home into the hall.

Up the road, evening.

A group of young cattle run to see us.  One is almost pure white, scarcely any black.  Once she might have been considered rare and precious; perhaps she still is.

Up the road afternoon - and would it offend his pride?

Marcel's place, garden uncharacteristically unkempt, elephant's-eye-high grass, worries me. Should I offer to cut it? But our mower needs servicing.

Clouds of blue speedwell on his verge are lovely, though.