Up the road, afternoon.

I enjoy a few just ripe blackberries. Many are sour, a few sweet, some tantalizingly out of reach; my mother used to hook them down with a curved walking stick.

Down the road, evening (making up for lost time)

In the field under the overhanging buddleia, a red admiral rests, bobbing lightly, on a barley head. A woodpigeon clatters out of the chestnut tree, and the butterfly starts upward.

Up the road, morning.

The sky patchy and misty, a cool grey morning, then in the distance a streak of sun, as if a rubber, or dodge tool, had been dragged across the scene.

Pause - rather more than 30 words.

I'm putting this blog on hold for a little while. I'm going away for a few days, which unfortunately has coincided with Mol looking like she's got further ear trouble, which is a worry; she'll stay here with Tom. I hope we'll be out again before long.

Up the road, morning.

The three triangles of a fox's face peep out from behind a heap of straw. It races away between the yellow ridges, then turns and leaps in waves over them.

Hillion peninsular, afternoon (with Gillian and Barley, Friday)

A kestrel circles and hovers so low above us we can see every feather.

The largest swathe of corn marigolds I've ever seen.

The dogs plod and pant and paddle.

Up the road, evening.

Suddenly, and even late in the day, it's very hot, summer's back again. Nearly home, we pause in the shade of the plane tree next door, and welcome the coolness.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

Out in the water is an outflow, which gurgles continuously, and where enough matter has silted up to let grass grow. A black-headed gull stands on this small island proprietorially.

Down the road, afternoon.

What a bleached and faded world it is, with the whitening wheat and barley, the ladies' bedstraw and white clover lining the roadsides, everything looks as if drawn in chalks.

Up the road, afternoon.

Dozy after a lazy day and a nap, I slowly recover and feel the benefit; the world seems full of possibility, the sea in the distance very visible and blue.

Up the road, afternoon.

The broad leaves of maize rustle and rub against each other in an imperceptible breeze. It gives me a persistent suspicion they are whispering about me as I go by.

Down the road, evening

A host of swallows whirl and dip like leaves, telling lies about sparrowhawks and landing to pick up mud from Antoine's bulb patch. They're building a nest in our garage.

Down the road, afternoon.

Working my fingers into the earthed-up ridge at the edge of the field, I scrump a couple of potatoes. Unnecessary but fun. They'll go with the peas from the market.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

Though around the lake is mown, and the reedmace cleared against coypu, the slope beyond is left rough, a wonderful, intricate tapestry of yellow, brown and purple weeds, including reedmace.

Up the road, afternoon

Much of the beauty at this time lies in the fine linework: the beards of barley, nodes of knapweed, thistles, the branching and rebranching of compound umbels against the sky.

Up the road, afternoon

We take refuge from a shower in the school bus shelter. I try, unsatisfactorily, to compose a ghazal couplet, but later decide to drop an idea from another poem, satisfactorily.

Up the road, afternoon (Sunday).

Tom comes along with us, experiencing a fresh air deficit. We put the world, and the garden, theoretically to rights, and look around less than I do on my own.

The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour, afternoon

This has become quite a dark tunnel now. We skirt the edge of a hayfield overlooking the town, where small groups of brown gatekeeper butterflies are starting to flutter upwards.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

July is an inert and characterless month, I reflect, then start enjoying the baked gold of the grasses, speckled and bejewelled with purple and yellow flowers and brown seed heads.

Cesson beach, afternoon, with Gillian and Barley (Thursday)

The sand is grey and slippery, marbled with watercourses. We paddle about ineptly; I fall over, Gillian cowers at the thunder. We take the cliff path, and get quite wet.

Down the road, afternoon.

The wheatfields beside the road have alot of barley mixed in; it is taller and hairier than the wheat, and give the field a disheveled look, like a bad haircut.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

'the languor of noontide that gathered the thunder...'

It must rain soon.

Scent of rugosa roses, buddleia, and cut grass drying, a frog croaks at the water's edge, warm breezes.

Down the road, morning, very early (Monday 30th)

The sun's bright copper globe is momentarily cloaked as it rises in a mist of its own making.

By the time we turn around, the light is clear and golden.