Down the road, morning (Saturday)

Fetching the car from the garage in Moncontour, walking with a purpose is different.  We go more briskly and cheerfully, and the bleakness of weather and scenery makes less impression.

Down the road, early evening.

The just more than half-moon is the same colour as the vent in the sky opposite where the last of the sunlight glows.  The last yellow marigolds shine more warmly.

Up the road, afternoon.

A batch of good brown mushrooms in the bank, so late in the year. I reach to pick them, but I have neither receptacle nor time.  I'll be back tomorrow.

On the beach, Morieux.

We walk from the little chapel on the headland, crunching on pearly shell fragments, until forced back by green seaweed. The wind and sunlight shock us as we turn around.

Above Arondel, walking Moos with Mol.

The largest parasol is ten inches across.  They snake across the field, actually in a wide arc, only the visible emergence of the mighty web of mycelium under the ground.

Up the road, afternoon.

An initially unidentifiable smell of cider, then I see the small crooked wilding apple tree on the bank has dropped its yield in the ditch, where it is gently fermenting.

Down the road, late afternoon (Saturday).

Dark brooding green swirls in the wind in the heart of Marcelle's spruce tree, while the last marigolds glow like dying embers below.  We'll be happy to be home tonight.

Up the road, afternoon.

We swallow gulps of wind with appreciation.  The crowds of starlings gust about the field like blown leaves, while blown leaves dashing across the road look themselves like living things.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

A green woodpecker, all olive, lime and crimson, with a head like a power tool, starts up from the grass.  Supposedly a starling-sized bird, close up it seems much bigger.

Down the road, early evening.

Crackling maize stems, scattered cobs, chickweed and stalks of cabbages the cows ate straight from the field, all is grist by the ploughs and turned to an even chocolate tilth.

Up the road, afternoon.

Earth and air are moist and cold, but flooded with light.  Woodsmoke and the smell of fresh-turned earth, as  tractors with great bladed ploughs dance ponderously.

 A flock of lapwings.

Town ramparts, Dinan, afternoon.

Pollarded limes raise black fists into the air, and the giant leaves of  plane trees lie around like piles of papers, or fly suddenly away, 'like ghosts from an enchanter...'

Quessoy arboretum, morning.

A jogger passes, red-faced and straining.  I salute her effort, but am privately glad I am strolling with dog and camera, gazing at the yellow treasure of the gingko trees.

Up the road, early evening.

A flock of long-tailed tits, easily a couple of dozen, accompany us from hedgerow to hedgerow for some way as it grows dark, tsee-ing noisily and looking like flying lollipops.