Up the road, afternoon

A ragged rolled back edge of cloud opens a window of sky, lighting the flat, pearly yellow and green shapes of hills and fields and hedges inland to the horizon.

Up the road, afternoon (Friday 29th): butterflies

Brown spotted dull gold on bramble leaf. Black-edged white on bright yellow hawksbit. Tiny china blue pulsing gravely on filigree white umbels. Lemon yellow brimstone on magenta sweet pea flower.

Down the road, evening (Wednesday 27th)

Cutting the wheat at last, yellowbrown straw heaped up in rows, the green block of the combine progressing patiently, Sylvain's blue-overalled form shadowy in the cab, the red tractor tending.

Up the road, afternoon. Two rare raptors in year, good going.

The swallows have cried wolf too long; when the hobby, known by its speed and dark slate plumage, shoots over the wheatfield, they barely have time to shout about it.

Up the road, afternoon, picking blackberries.

A brown butterfly sways sleepily on a ripe cluster, proboscis plunged into a soft berry, sucking dark juice. Alive for a season, lost in blissful drunkenness, I leave it in peace.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon (Friday)

Silhouetted in the topmost dead branch of an oak, a parent chaffinch is feeding a young bird. Their repeated bobbing, pecking and chirping gives them the air of clockwork automata.

Up the road, afternoon.

We complete the tour without rain, but it's growing gloomy. The handsome yellow flowers growing among the wheat are beginning to close, like shopkeepers at the end of the day.

Down the road, early evening.

A tractor bearing down behind us, we race to the corner, just for fun.

It is unseasonably chilly, and Molly wants to get back to Tom, we turn for home.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, evening.

I take a detour on the way home and make an extra tour of the pool. She's been so patient, and the calm water does us both good.

Down the road, evening

Low sun on wet road, powdering the treetops. Meeting the potato planters, who lament weather and carrot fly, running back too late not to get wet. A sudden, double-spectrum rainbow.

Up the road, afternoon, lane to la Tantouille.

We strike out across the field to the stream valley. A raucous cacophany of jays sounds quite unnerving, one might almost think a murder was being committed. Perhaps it is.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, late afternoon

Blackberries and rugosa rosehips, which are both plentiful, look tempting pickings, and make me think of 'jellies soother than the creamy curd'.

A few late fishermen loll on the benches.

Hill above Henon, afternoon.

In the woods, an old chestnut, with three trunks growing out nearly horizontal that curve elegantly upward. It is unusual to see one so large and growing so naturally here.

Up the road, afternoon. Language barrier?

A small boy cycles alongside me at Bel Orient. His speech seems to be odd expressions and pleasantries jumbled together largely unintelligibly, but giving an overall impression of sociable chitchat.

Apologies

Apologies for temporary absence, other matters taking priority. Back soon.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

Eight fishermen, well spaced, mostly elderly, with chairs, a radio, meditative. A good number: enough to create a sense of calm animation, not so many as to overwhelm the place.

Up the road, afternoon

The unknown English owners of the Sad House, must have returned at last. Though glad to see shutters open and grass cut, I experience a slight panic at possible acquaintance...

Down the road, late afternoon.

After the rain, next door's plane tree shakes off drops like a wet dog. Bel-Air's radio towers are covered in rain cloud, and the wet wheat is brown as bread.

Down the road, evening

As we pass the wheatfield, something scutters away among the stems. It often happens at this spot, but I've yet to see what it is. I feel I'm being watched.

Up the road, evening.

I've chiselled half a square meter of wall for repointing, and swum for half an hour. The walk in the cooling evening air and lengthening shadows is the final tonic.

Lanes around St Igneuc, with Isobel, Pippa and Ilan

Usually Molly bobs around me freely within the radius of her extending lead. With two other adults and a pushchair, I have to dart around them to avoid entanglement.

Morieux, afternoon.

The beach was a nice idea, but the seaweed pollution makes walking horrible. Two dogs were said to have died from fumes from it recently; we give up, turn back.