Vet's surgery, Loudeac, morning. The last thirty words.

Now's the time.  In the end her spirit passes lightly and gently, but she leaves all her love behind. She has always been with us and she always will be.

Woods between Quessoy and Hénon, morning.

Molly no longer knows where she is, but I stop where she used to bark and wind down the windows. She raises her head and snuffs the cool woody breezes.

Hill above Hénon, morning

Cool and damp, Mol just bathed.  They've stripped out the gorse next to the parking which seems a shame for the birds but leaves a clearer view to the sea.

Hill above Hénon, morning

Sounds of mistle thrush, robin, wren, blackbird, stonechat, yellowhammer, chaffinch, blue and great tits, cuckoo.

Picot edging and Amos Barton.

Sea in the distance; Mol dozing in a the sun.

Down the road, evening

Swallows are properly back at last, sorrel is bolting already into sharp red points, poplars in the valley are beaten copper behind the white cherry blossom, a marvel every year.

Down the road, evening

Top-lit piles of bright cloud are cross-hatched by still bare poplars, everything is late but there's a green sheen on the willows now and the verges are sprinkled with stitchwort.

Down the road, evening

The fire lit, a quick turn.  A midwife toad chirps.

'And woodthrush calling through the fog
What images return
My daughter.'

Those lines were dear to him, I know.

Down the road, afternoon.

It's chilly, the weather's been atrocious, Molly is recovering from a bad back, but we are happy to take the gentlest of turns and sniff the air and the grass.

Down the road, evening.

Again and again this relief, gratitude, disbelief nearly, that we can once more walk in daylight at six o'clock. I can see why, perhaps, they raised stones to ensure it.

Up the road, afternoon (Saturday)

Sunshine, people emerge like squirrels.  Blue sky in the standing water of the empty maize field, the silvered winter stalks inscribe it like a lost alphabet.  The inland hills sharp.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

Returning jump leads to the garage opposite, engine running, Mol requests a (very) quick walk.  A bright shimmer on the face of the water: an afterthought of the Christmas gales.

Up the road, morning.

Sunshine. Fieldfare in the ash tree shouts loud as a magpie. Little old dog, slow and distracted, cheerful.

My heart full and heavy as a silk purse filled with gold.

Down the road, evening.

There are splashes and flashes of light and shadow across the world, a theatre of sun and wind conducted from very high by a dancing cirrus djinn with ribboning fingers.

Up the road, afternoon.

Daddy-longlegs are everywhere, floundering stupidly over road and verges, banging into us.  Why aren't there birds to eat them?  The swallows could have feasted but it's too late, they're gone.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

The shadows of trout, red-finned and huge, drift then splash and churn the water noisily as I pass.  Oh please no, not the bloody Schubert Trout Suite earworm again...