Down the road, early evening.

After an afternoon with friends of film watching, tea, rock cakes and cheerful chatter, it's good to stretch our legs, and take in the liquid, low sunshine flooding the world.

Up the road, afternoon (Tuesday).

The day is biting cold and grey, so the sun surprises me: a white, palely tinted disc, with a patina of moving cloud, hanging over the pines on the hilltop.

Down the road, evening.

The lapwings stir and rise from the field, as always in company with a white gull or two.  I'm sorry to disturb them, but love seeing their twinkling monochrome flight.

Down the road, late afternoon.

Mildness and murk, and just as far as the corner of our field.  Mol shakes her head in the damp air, and I insist she stays out of the mud.

Pledran, Porridge's woods.

We enjoy a mild, bright, misty day, but our walk is not as it should be.  Where is Porridge?  Muddy and sheepish, she is waiting for us when we return.

Up the road, morning (Sunday)

Released from the Snow Queen's thrall, lapwings glean again in the fields, mistle thrushes whistle their clear, simple tunes, skylarks sing - full song, not fragments - starlings pretend to be blackbirds.  

Approach to Bogard, morning (Saturday).

The pool opposite the chateau is enlarged with meltwater to a lake, and is criss-crossed by many ducks.  I rather wish they were white swans, but they look fine anyway.

Up the road, morning (Wednesday).

Victor and his elderly nephew are attacking the road ice with a pickaxe, old Helene watching.  The are not very systematic or achieving much, but seem to be enjoying themselves.

Down the road, afternoon.

Snow on the road hard as tarmac, thickness unknown, we walk the centre and edges.  Colour, balm and life are all in the copper-cobalt-lavender sky, the topmost twigs of trees.

Up the road, afternoon.

Down at the corner, the wind has lifted the snow into tiny peaks and ruffles.  A single maize stump pokes from a bank of it, dark and odd and eye-catching.

Up the road, morning.

The snow takes us into the past, very few, slow cars and quiet, the road becomes a lane once more, and Molly comes off her her lead and wanders freely.

Up the road, afternoon

Sliding on the packed road snow, small footprints to Marcelle's gate, a boy on a quad bike, Guy and Monique walking jauntily, a pink anvil cloud over Bel Air.

Down the road, early evening.

Evening will be clear and perishingly cold; the sun fiery through the cross-hatching of leafless trees, and the shadows long.  My windscreen has a sheet over it when we return.

Up the road, morning.

I never could resist thin ice on puddles; spoiling it with a crack, pressing down till a small geyser of muddy water spurts up through, then the inevitable wet foot.