Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

The water is black and white ripples under an offwhite sky. Two boys see how far they can throw stones into it. Fish zig and zag just under the surface.

Up the road, afternoon

In puddles on smooth ground, the oval depressions in the spongey soles of my trainers act like suction cups. I stamp my heels hard to give the road smacking kisses.

The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour, mid-morning

A derelict house below is being re-roofed: principles, purlins, rafters and batons, bright yellow new wood against old grey stone amongst winter trees. Always good to see a ruin revived.

On the way to the watermill, Guettes-es-Lievres, afternoon.

Little girl in a pink coat edges along the railings, feet in and out, balancing. I remember doing this, imagining it could be a daring act a life depended on ...

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

The young trees are meagre, twiggy, nondescript, yet their carefully labelled names can carry you to faraway lands, to groves filled with colour and mystery and the spirits of long-departed botanists.

Down the road, afternoon.

A sunny afternoon indoors with knitting and a film, but I regret nothing. A sparse, languid rain is setting in; the poplars are lacey and lightly coppered with leaf buds.

Down the road, late afternoon.

We come across our former neighbour, putting up a fence for his sister, who rounds the corner pushing a wheelbarrow. We fall restfully into talking of the matter in hand.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

I spend a lot of time poring over rocks and rotten wood, moss, stone pennywort and acorn cups, dead hydrangea bracts, foxglove shoots, dried bracken fronds.

Mol is reasonably patient.

Down the road, late afternoon; avis specere

Mistle thrush in the seventh oak, flies to the fourteenth, sings again.

Three fraying vees of lapwings, high and purposeful, returning home? I wish them luck over lonely northern seas.

Down the road, afternoon.

A soft, muted day now, with birdsong sounding thick and indistinct. I look over my shoulder, and see Tom who has decided to join me. Smiles and tail wagging ensue.

Up the road, afternoon

By Bel Orient, a marron-coloured bull grazes among the pied and spotted cows, who, of a sudden, lift their heads, and, unbidden, make towards the milking sheds.
He follows amiably.

The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour, afternoon

Joe, I'd call a friend of mine,

Is partial to a celandine.

I searched, but though last week saw many,

Now, after frost, found hardly any!

( Saw some speedwell though ... )

Up the road, afternoon

A young man, burly, crop-headed, kit-bag, jeans and loafers, walking the back road. Cheerful, face open to sun and wind, he has the air of one just dropped off, returning.

Down the road, late afternoon.

I've left my hat and gloves behind, and the east wind bites at my hands and face.

Two crows convene casually to mob a kestrel, then go on their way.

Down the road, late afternoon.

Cold still, but now the sharp, rayless disc of the sun slices through the fog. Low colour floods the world again, a world without form, but shape and line only.