Up the road, afternoon.

The roads have become river beds, and getting up the hill in the wind is hard work in the wind.

On the homeward stretch, a patch of blue sky clears.

Down the road, late afternoon.

Two ends of the rainbow, broken pillars, bright to north and south.  Between, a tapering swathe of black cloud, which throws a brief and petulant shower of hail onto us.

Approach to Bogard, afternoon.

The iron gate, flaked painted white and algal greenish, with rosetted medallions, is wedged shut with a flat stone.  Sliding my arm between the bars, I replace it behind me.

Jardins du Thabor, Rennes.

Amorous lovers romp on the 'authorised lawn'; park-keepers berate us for walking on an unauthorised one. 

A cheerful dreadlocked man appears with a troop of footballing children; the lovers desist.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, early evening.

The church clock strikes six; it is bright twilight, reflecting stilly on the face of the water.  Four mallards rest there unwontedly long, then take off towards the lower ponds.

Up the road, afternoon.

Marcelle and Helene, sisters in their eighties, tease me in patois and we grumble about the cold, and how we miss the sun and light. 

So grey, what's to say?

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

There are many yellow hazel catkins, the only signs of spring save for unfurling foxglove leaves.  On one bush, a single dry brown nut from last autumn remains alongside them.