The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour, afternoon

Over my head, and the sound of running water, a blackcap, or whitethroat, is singing. I strain to see it, but just catch its movement away into the broom thicket.

Up the road, afternoon

Into wind and rain, Molly walks close, to heel like a well-trained dog, licking rain off her nose. I notice a tuft of grey on the back of her head.

Down the road, late afternoon.

The wind is rough and rude and noisy. Except for the willows, most of the trees are sagely holding back their leaves. Our third walk today, we keep it short.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

Boxer dog, white with a black eye patch and red lead, is clearly a worry to his owners. Ill-shod, they take the muddier path, avoiding us. I feel unwarrentedly guilty.

Up the road, afternoon

Throat weirdly sore, I don't feel right. No matter; the sky is mostly blue and the sun has shone today. The birds are singing for real and not against adversity.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

I stand listening to the rain on the hood of my coat and watching the dappled circles it makes on the surface of the water. Years fall away from me.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon, on the way to Isobel's.

The bumpy car-park brings all the warning lights on. A precautionary backtracking to the garage, where battered BX drinks three cans of oil. We consider her eventual demise and replacement.

Up the road, afternoon,10 x 3

Eluding the rain
Rusty wicket gate
Leeks, bolted cabbages
Damp, disconsolate windflowers
Drab green pines
Veiled, luminous horizon
Faraway, brilliant fragments
Renewal of wonder
Landscape loved again
Raindrop ringed puddles.

Down the road, late afternoon.

A football nestles in the grass under the tree next door, looking like a silver plastic fungus. It's been there for months. There's a gold one a little further off.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

Swallows, the first. Two quick, blueblack shapes amid the hailstones over the broken water. I wonder where they are going, Dorset, Hertfordshire, Iona?

Lion and lamb, March tears itself apart.

Down the road, late afternoon.

A blast of late, low sun silvers the road, turns the treetops from burnt umber to sulphur yellow, lime green, brick red, then passes, and they return to umber again.

Up the road, afternoon

I chat with my neighbour; we agree on a sense of grievance. Fellow-feeling is a wondrous thing, on learning someone else feels aggrieved, I immediately feel less so, and better.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, late afternoon

East wind thin and cold, I hug my jacket to me. Before long the sandmartins will be here. I think to myself how good that lemon tart from Tartapain was!

Up the road, afternoon

Reproachful, self-piteous, lugubrious as the day - stop scowling at the ground so!

Force up chin and brows, breathe.

Hear, then see the first bumble bee, there, on the flowering currant.

Up the road, afternoon

Tom comes too, we walk briskly. The air is like a glass of water, the low sunlight gleams off slate roofs in the distance. We reach home before the rain.

Down the road, late afternoon. Change of plan.

We set off to walk as far as we can before Tom picks us up in the car to go to friends'. The heavens open and we race back, soaked.

Up the road, afternoon

The sun is making the fields emerald green in the distance. My mind is skittering off all over the place and I can't develop anything. Alas, sometimes it's like that.

Down the road, afternoon (in the car on the way into town)

A hen harrier, startlingly black, grey and white, floats across the fields ahead of us, stirring up the skylarks. I've not seen one hereabouts for years, and never this close.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, mid-morning / Down the road, late afternoon. Two short ones.

1) From the troubles of the world I turn to daffodils. It works quite well.

2) Though cloudy here, below, in the plain, wind turbines, water towers and grain silos shine whitely.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

Wet windy weather, the puddles aspire to be lakes, the lake a small sea, waves lapping. Trees roar and daffodils bob anxiously, up the hill a polytunnel's covering cracks angrily.

Up the road, afternoon

In sunlight in his window, old Marcel is reading maps.

Football in Plemy, I hear but don't see the action.

The air washed clean by rain, wellies make puddles fun.

Down the road, late afternoon.

In the grey drizzle, skeins of electric blue bailer twine hang on fence posts, the brightest thing in sight. They're there for herding cows, who also see them as electric.

Cesson beach, afternoon.

A lovely, long, light-filled beach walk with Rosie and Porridge. Porridge started white, romped and rolled, and finished sandy grey. Proud of Molly, who plodded and sploshed with good heart.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

A lifeless, lightless Lenten day. Even a snowy magnolia flowering on the corner fails to draw me to it. My thoughts and I don't really want to come out today.

Up the road, late afternoon (4th March)

The light is bright and clear and facetted as diamonds, but the wind is sharp and sudden as broken glass. We turn into it, returning to chop wood and vegetables.

Down the road, late afternoon.

Hail slush still lies amongst the grass. I suggest going a little further, but Molly protests strongly. It is too cold and too close to (her) dinner time. She wins.

Down the road, lunchtime

A quick turn to the second bend between the showers.The air is warm and wet, and the skylarks have suddenly all woken up and are, at heaven's gate, singing.

Collegiale de Notre Dame, Lamballe, morning.

A morning of silvered sunlight, muted shadow and silhouette
Of stones and trees absorbs
The child, his father and his tricycle.
Some times like this I remember
Why I'm here.