Up the road, afternoon.

Stretching from a day's work putting the garden to bed, I don't mind too much the thought of winter, when the fire is lit, and books are better than travel.

Up the road, afternoon.

The Limousin bull, who is often in the field below our house, has been moved near the top of the hill. He lies in the grass like a fallen megalith.

Collegiale de Notre Dame, Lamballe, morning. The wind in their tails...

A tiny curly-haired girl with an excited smile, collecting conkers with her father, wants to talk to Molly, who is too busy running among the whirling yellow lime and chestnut leaves.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

A cormorant is standing on the island formed by debris collected at the overflow to the pool. It lifts off reluctantly, wheels round wide, and heads off over the treetops.

Up the road, afternoon.

A seemingly exhausted but still fresh-looking peacock butterfly languishes on the road, fluttering and looking helpless. I think of taking it in my cupped hands, relaunching it, but I don't.

Up the road, afternoon.

Marcelle gives me shocking pink asters and hazelnuts. Pierre stops the tractor and promises me firewood for winter.

The dead cow is still in the field, still dead.

Country matters.

Down the road, morning.

A pearly spiders' web morning. They hang on branches and bushes, posts and postboxes. Some, intriguingly, are suspended from electric wires, pegged to the ground. Don't the spiders risk electrocution?

Up the road, evening.

I try to tick boxes in my head, then my nose observes they have cut the verges, and I can't decide how I feel about the smell of cut bracken.

Down the road, evening.

The evening is flushed and agitated, a jay is buffeted too fast over the hedges.

A sky blue hydrangea and bonbon pink rose, their colours slightly feverish, in Pierre's garden.

Up the road, afternoon.

Marcel's and Anne's empty garden chairs look forlorn under a grey sky. Then I spy the butcher's van, and see them through the window, having a chinwag with Mme Craff.

Water mill, Guettes-es-Lievres, afternoon.

Pond skaters dapple the olive green sheen of the water with endlessly changing concentric circles.

The stony weir that thundered through the winter merely mumbles in the season's low water.

Approach to Bogard, morning.

The poplar leaves are dropping, veined, fluttering, curled, September's golden hearts.

And who would know it, but the woods smell like good soft leather.

A woodpecker stifles a laugh.

Up the road, afternoon.

A pewter coloured sky, and even more swallows facing south along the wires. It's good to be wearing a jacket and chunky shoes again, as we cut across the harrowed wheatfield.

Up the road, afternoon.

On the road by home, some fox poo, full of mirabelle stones. The mirabelle trees are some way away, so the fox's range must be quite as large as ours.