Lamballe, round the lake.

Alders and grebes, a goose with a tangerine bill watches and is watched by a toddler with breadcrumbs.  Oh the pretty springtime, how glad we all are to be out!

The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour, morning.

The birds are busy in the leafless trees, so I can easily see the hammer-drilling spotted woodpecker, and the rowdy gang of jays who bound about with their crests raised.

Up the road, afternoon.

In red overalls, Ludovic is pruning the prunus.  Victor has trimmed the gorse hedge, leaving a few sprays of yellow flowers.  Antoines crocuses make brave violet, mauve and gold stripes.

Up the road, afternoon.

A single primrose opens reluctant and pale in the bank, looking huddled and miserable.  The daffodils outside Brochain's are flowering at last; other years they can be out before February.

Up the road, afternoon.

A whole grey-brown hydrangea head is blown and bounced down the Brochain's garden path.  It puts one in mind of a tumbleweed, or a whelk's empty egg-case on the beach.

Up the road, morning. But she's mine and I love her.

The young cocker, white coat tasselled with black and ears black-fringed, is exquisitely named Ermine.  Delicately angular, deep muzzled and feathery, she makes Mol look round and dishevelled and small-headed.

Down the road, evening.

The lower the sun goes down below the horizon behind us, the higher is the coloured band across the top of the hills in front where its light still reaches.

Up the road, afternoon.

It really is a skylark, full song.  Trying to see it makes me sneeze; I'm sure when I was younger I could always find them, but now focussing is impossible.

Up the road, afternoon.

The roads have become river beds, and getting up the hill in the wind is hard work in the wind.

On the homeward stretch, a patch of blue sky clears.

Down the road, late afternoon.

Two ends of the rainbow, broken pillars, bright to north and south.  Between, a tapering swathe of black cloud, which throws a brief and petulant shower of hail onto us.

Approach to Bogard, afternoon.

The iron gate, flaked painted white and algal greenish, with rosetted medallions, is wedged shut with a flat stone.  Sliding my arm between the bars, I replace it behind me.

Jardins du Thabor, Rennes.

Amorous lovers romp on the 'authorised lawn'; park-keepers berate us for walking on an unauthorised one. 

A cheerful dreadlocked man appears with a troop of footballing children; the lovers desist.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, early evening.

The church clock strikes six; it is bright twilight, reflecting stilly on the face of the water.  Four mallards rest there unwontedly long, then take off towards the lower ponds.

Up the road, afternoon.

Marcelle and Helene, sisters in their eighties, tease me in patois and we grumble about the cold, and how we miss the sun and light. 

So grey, what's to say?

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

There are many yellow hazel catkins, the only signs of spring save for unfurling foxglove leaves.  On one bush, a single dry brown nut from last autumn remains alongside them.