Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

By the water, the first pink stars of ragged robin, and at the roadsides, dark purple wild orchids, drifts of them, growing in the long grass as carefree as bluebells.

Up the road, afternoon.

I meet Guy and his wife walking, who tell me about the Breton mares.

'A colt and a filly!'

But they won't be in the paddock until next month now.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

I scramble up the bank to look better, but the whitethroat singing in the cotoneasters eludes my attempt to establish that it isn't just a melodious dunnock, and remains hidden.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning (Wednesday).

Water crowsfoot lines the pool edges like swathes of ragged lace, the birdsong in the bowl of trees is immense. I sit on the bench and close my eyes.

Up the road, afternoon.

I am wobbling somewhat with hunger as I draw near to home, and through her open door comes the aroma of coffee Marcelle is drinking. It is almost unbearably delicious!

The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour, afternoon

Alkanet, herb robert, broom, stitchwort, celandine still, dog violets, bluebells emerging, lilac above the workshop garden, with its neat rows of pansies and violas. An illuminated manuscript, the season is timeless.

Up the road, afternoon.

The blue tit's beakful of moss is so large it can barely fly. It disappears behind the bole of a tree, and re-emerges, beak empty. It doesn't like me watching.

Up the road, afternoon.

Mol runs in the green wheat, finds a way homeward, through fence and ditch and hedgerow, I don't see. But she comes back for me, shows me where to go.

Binic, afternoon (Thursday).

Over the pink and orange sea-wall
dark clouds fracture, so
rain and sun argue, then unexpectedly
make up, come out together smiling,
warm and wet on the skin at once.

Down the road, evening.

A head of dandelions, big as a cabbage, forty flowers easily, all perpendicular on bright green, wine red stems, closed upwards, geometric, heraldic, ruffed with floss white and yellow tips.

Down the road, afternoon.

After looking for signs of the spring for so long, suddenly it is racing faster than one can follow, as fast as the swallow flying a metre above the pasture.

Up the road, afternoon.

The poplars are turning at last a rusty apricot over the lime green hazels and sallows. There is more colour in spring than there ever is in autumn.

Down the road, evening (Thursday)

I largely forget to observe anything, but my mind goes gack and forth over the days events in a relaxed way, as Molly does, pausing and sniffing by the roadside.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

Damply mild, and fish push their heads out of the water. I wonder if it is like us, plunging our faces into water, holding our breath, but probably it's not.

Down the road, early evening.

More and more swallows wheel and dip and pirouette quarrelsomely and amorously. I feel as though they are visitors I am pleased to see but not quite up to receiving.

Up the road, afternoon

We go to see if the horses are in their paddock, but no. It is warm and beautiful, so we head down the sunken lane, walk too far, come back tired.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

The girl picks up the trout her father has caught in a thin plastic bag, cautiously touches it with an outstretched finger, then quickly withdraws with a sense of relief.

Up the road, afternoon

Despite the cold, a thickening certainty in the birdsong, like reaching a setting point.

A honeybee gathers propolis from Marcel's Chinese privet hedge.

Slightly whitening dog violets in the bank.