Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

We slither and slide through wet leaf mould, and I struggle to find solace and grace in the peat-brown waters and sodden grass and paths.

I succeed, in some measure.

Up the road, afternoon.

The distant hills are sharply defined, a dark, bruised blue.  Jays, raucous as scrapping cats, call from the firs, and a tiny olive warbler emerges momentarily in the willow hedge.

Up the road, late afternoon.

Black trees loom up out of a black road.  Car headlights look warm and pale golden against the bluish monochrome of the fading snow.  It'll be good to get home.

Up the road, afternoon.

We manage by walking along the thawed out crown of the road, though Mol, with four-wheel drive, potters along quite happily on the packed down ice of the car tracks.

Up the road, early evening.

Why is it that the aged, faded rose and lavender in the sky, and the shadows in the hills that contain all colours and none, seem to promise something wonderful?

Up the road, afternoon.

After flurries of grey snow this morning, my nameday is hard and clear as a draught of water now, the wind thin and cutting as we turn back into it.

Hill above Hénon, afternoon.

We walk along the tramlines between the small green blades of wheat, around the perimeter of two fields, first with our backs to the sun then into it.  Deeply happy.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon ( Thursday ).

This place is peaceful, set-aside, but the smell and sounds from the nearby pig farm taint the air.  I admonish myself for wishing I didn't have to think about them.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

The small stream rumbles like a mighty cataract, and, though autumn seemed over, there is a last scattering of gold from oaks and hazels, even as the first catkins appear.

Up the road, afternoon.

I can't resist wading into the deep puddle on the corner, its water a cloudy pale terracotta.  That is when I discover there is a hole in my wellington boot.

Up the road, afternoon.

Jackdaws, I count thirteen, in a ragged broken letter, uttering their friendly, plosive 'peouw-peouws'.  Unusual to see them over the fields; they live around Moncontour's church tower and walls.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

The mosaic of fallen leaves darkens and evens to a mummified brown, patterned by line more than colour.

Two plastic bottles bob among the broken reedmace in the shivering water.