Up the road, afternoon.

We venture further afield looking for sloes, but I've left it late, and many are withered and finished.  Then, when nearly home, we find a bush of fat glossy ones.

Up the road, afternoon.

A very tiny old lady, unknown to me, buttonholes me on the corner.  She's staying with her daughter, but homesick for Paris; here, she says, it is like a desert.

Approach to Bogard, afternoon.

I know the silky plates and domes of these mushrooms are edible, but not worth the bother.  Leave them to be beautiful among the heart-shaped leaf litter of the poplars.

Up the road, afternoon.

Whilst enjoying the scenery, I'm thinking about making things: Christmas cards from photos, sloe gin, chicken fricassee and rice with some of the jar of chestnut puree mixed into it...

Up the road, afternoon.

In an explosion of noise and colour, a cock pheasant bursts up out of Marcelle's orange marigold bed.  I am sorry to have driven it from its place of safety.

Up the road, afternoon.

The wind from the north which blows my hair out sideways, also carries a late, hasty swallow, flying low and lonely across the track, over the fields and far away.

Tredaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

The tapping of a small ball hammer on a plank, close.  Wait, and I'm right, the woodpecker flaps away, like a black and white chequerboard with a red backing.

Tredaniel plan d'eau, morning.

Molly suddenly leaps into the car with uncharacteristic haste, then leaps out again.  I'm puzzled, then see a bumblebee crawling where she has just been. She is terrified but unstung.

Road back from Henon, evening, Friday (not really a walk, but out with Mol anyway)

The streaming wet road is alive with amphibians: frogs, toads, and salamanders of all shapes and sizes.  For Tom, trying to avoid them whilst driving is a rather fraught business.

Up the road, morning.

A perfect morning of dew and cobwebs, I have forgotten the hunters.  Yet, utterly despite myself,  I enjoy watching the handsome Breton spaniels working the stubble in the blue mist.

Tredaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

A lorryload of live pigs is in the carpark, rattling and grunting somewhat though not as rank-smelling and shrieking as sometimes.  I make myself look, and tell them I'm sorry.

Up the road, afternoon (Monday).

Returning, I see bonfire smoke;  Tom, back indoors, says it is about finished.

I go down anyway, to kick the ashes and throw stray twigs and roots into the embers.

Up the road, lunchtime.

We may hate the first day of hunting, but Molly loves it, with  rank, smelly hunters' dogs perfuming every verge and corner, and a pheasant whirring up from the ditch.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

Near the carpark, a flat, palm-sized stone is surrounded by fragments of spiral snailshells, bronze and yellow and Roman, together with many goblets of acorns, twigs and curled brown leaves.

Up the road, late afternoon.

Leaving, I deadhead some dried-blood red flowers of the windowbox geraniums, drying and autumnal now but still blooming. Coming back, I pick and eat a single ripe russet cherry tomato.