Down the road, evening

We appreciate the coolth, although I shiver.

I pinch a handful of untended, naturalised strawberries from Pierre's old front flowerbed; they are small, crunchy and intense as real wild ones.

Up the road, afternoon.

Outside feels like a centrally-heated room with the doors and windows closed.

At Le Boissy, a trough of bright purple and white striped petunias which look like miniature circus pavilions.

Down the road, early evening.

Back and shoulders ache from gardening and window cleaning, but it's nice to stroll. A soft buzz of invisible insects rises from the maize field, though there are no flowers.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

A middle-aged couple fishing, a Duralex tumbler holds down the pages of a magazine the man is reading. Further off, in the shade, a bright yellow plastic coolbox promises lunch.

Down the road, evening.

The sky from horizon to zenith is a muted rainbow, filled with the first young swallows learning to fly. A light haze gives the landscape a flattened, cut-out look.

Hill above Hénon, afternoon.

I have been out of sorts, distanced. The light through the chestnut leaves and the smell of pine and elder brings me back, that and the normal settling of things.

Down the road, early evening.

At the corner, we meet old Hélène, and walk back together, at a snail's pace. Molly is unimpressed, but I'm brought up to date on several matters of local gossip.

Up the road, afternoon. (Thursday)

Molly plunges into the rib-high barley, is lost in moments. I call and call, imagining her among the stems like a seal beneath the waves. We meet up with relief.

Up the road, evening (Wednesday).

Despite the heavy warmth of the day, it is remarkably clear; in the light lively breeze, I can see just three out of the six windturbines at Plestan are turning.

Water mill, Guettes-es-Lievres, morning (Tuesday).

The decaying waterwheel has been replaced, along with the bridge over the weir.

In nearby Plouguenast, a holidaying group, who are looking for a football pitch for the donkey's lunch.

Hill above Hénon, afternoon.

From the paths cut into the woods, through the trees and hedgerows, windows open out onto the long wealden stretch, beyond Hénon's tall church, towards the sea and its headlands.

Down the road, evening (Saturday).

The strandlike sprays of chestnut flowers that cover the trees like a fleece look improbably exotic, as if they should be in a Rousseau jungle, with parrots and leaping tigers.

Up the road, afternoon.

Less than half-way round we resort to the school bus shelter. I watch the circles of rain on a large grey puddle for a while, then reluctantly turn for home.

Up the road, afternoon.

Bunches of noisy, stubby-tailed fledgeling blue tits seem to accompany me most of the way, bobbing from tree to tree, demanding food from their anxious and tired parents

Up the road, afternoon.

At the bottom of the field, far off, a vixen with a cub playing around her. She hunkers and glowers at me, but does not run. The cub is oblivious.

The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour, midday.

Already the greens are monochrome dark, only the pale spires of stone pennywort, the mauve of foxgloves and the frothy, fruity perfume of elderflowers give some lift to the scene.

Down the road, evening.

A big brown dog fox lopes hesitantly across the striped maizefield; we keep still, and he joins the road ahead, leaping fluidly across the opposite ditch when he sees us.

Down the road, evening.

Problems can mean wishing your life away. ' I wish tomorrow were over, I wish X were resolved' means wishing away this beautiful green-fused evening, and the peace it could bring.