Down the road, evening.

The swallows' alarm as they chase the hobby is urgent, unlike their over-dramatising chiding of a magpie or each other. Earlier, I saw the falcon as it swung, Horus-headed, into the sun.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning (Saturday)

On fine Saturday mornings, the place takes on a lively, clubbish, human ambiance, as fishermen and boys, their bikes, mopeds, radios and tinned sweetcorn, punctuate the banks of the pool.

Up the road, afternoon (Friday) - The horses are back.

Guy, cycling lycra-clad, whirrs past :' 'Y a des chevaux!'

But I take no photos, as, once there, I am engaged in distracting conversation with a horse-mad little girl called Marine.

Down the road, afternoon.

The bank where Pierre, when alive, tried to write the name of the house, and his and Marie's initials, in houseleeks, is a riot of seeding forget-me-nots and feasting greenfinches.

Down the road, afternoon.

The narrow damp field, patched with buttercups, the red streaks of sorrel, an odd mauve-pink corner of ragged robin, now if I could paint that... an opaque medium, pastels perhaps.

Down the road, evening

The sandy Limousin bull is canoodling gently with one of his thirteen black and white wives. Despite his size, he has a softness, seeming milder and dozier than the cows.

Down the road, early evening.

The small blades of maize, the sun behind them, draw luminous limegreen lines over the fields, which break up as one's viewpoint changes, disappearing altogether with the sun in front.

Up the road, afternoon, Ascension Day, and three oranges.

A sprig of Marcel's mock orange blossom to sniff at.

Young smiling Annabelle wears a sleeveless dress, richly striped orange.

Orange painted lady butterflies seem to be everywhere in abundance.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

The starry raft of water crowsfoot breaks the pattern of ripples the wind makes on the surface of the water, creating a still, smooth patch the small fish swim in.

Down the road, evening.

I count the trees around in our woodland: ninety goat and one weeping willow, two ash, numerous hazel and chestnut, ten wizened oak round the edges. And alot of brambles.

Up the road, afternoon.

May blossom, hawthorn flowers, like all the flowering trees and shrubs, seems particularly luxuriant this year. Its perfume is something like a pungent almond essence, or tinned cherry pie filling.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon (Friday).

Willow fluff floats on the surface around the edges of the pool. From one angle it forms a fairylike sheen; the light the other way renders it a dusty scum.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

The air is full of willow fluff, extraordinarily like snow. A cuckoo calls persistently, almost tiresomely, except it is such a special thing, I am unable to consider it annoying.

At home.

Tom goes Out with Mol this evening, while I sort clothes, and touch up the tiny ragged edges of new wallpaper with a fine brush and a matching Inktense pencil.

Up the road, afternoon, Quengo.

In the orchard where poultry wander sedately under pink and white blossom, the group of guinea fowl bask in the dust, like tiny grey chiffon dinosaurs with blue heads.