Trédaniel plan d'eau, mid-morning

The cordonnier hasn't finished mending my red boots. I kill time at the fishing pond: a primrose, periwinkles, and acid green leaves emerging from the spiny grey rugosa rose stems.

Down the road, late afternoon.

A lazily whorling vortex of gulls is sharply, prettily white against the lively green of the pasture in the evening light.

The harsh, anaerobic odour of slurry tells me why.