Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

It is the translucency of spring blossoms, the prayer flags of magnolia and the silver and gold luminescence of willow catkins, as they dance and spar with wind and light...

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

The brambles never quite lose their leaves, so that the springing bright green new shoots stand out over last year's bottle brown and purple ones, leathery and mined by insects.

Up the road, afternoon.

That's the cold hard southerly wind we sometimes get at this time of year, blowing in flashes of sun and splashes of rain, and rippling the surface of the puddles.

Up the road, afternoon.

The Limousin bull and his cows are suddenly frisky, high-tailing around the field, butting and rubbing necks and foreheads.  There seems no violence and little sex involved, just high spirits.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

Swallows, wheeling over the water, accompanied by sand martins.  I don't remember that they've made me cry before.  I understand that somewhere I doubted, this time, they'd still come back.

Up the road, and right, past the water tower, morning.

It's an unlovely route in many ways, agricultural dereliction, but its unfamiliarity renders it  interesting, and we get to talk to the donkey, who is skittish and wary of us.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

The bare, still wintry stems of the dogwood are one yellow, like sulphur, faded, matt and greenish, while the daffodils and the pompoms of witchhazel are another, new and glowing.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

To watch the water flowing towards the bridge makes you feel crowded and pressured, on the other side, watching it flow away, brings release and lightness. Try it and see!

Lamballe, round the lake.

Alders and grebes, a goose with a tangerine bill watches and is watched by a toddler with breadcrumbs.  Oh the pretty springtime, how glad we all are to be out!

The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour, morning.

The birds are busy in the leafless trees, so I can easily see the hammer-drilling spotted woodpecker, and the rowdy gang of jays who bound about with their crests raised.

Up the road, afternoon.

In red overalls, Ludovic is pruning the prunus.  Victor has trimmed the gorse hedge, leaving a few sprays of yellow flowers.  Antoines crocuses make brave violet, mauve and gold stripes.

Up the road, afternoon.

A single primrose opens reluctant and pale in the bank, looking huddled and miserable.  The daffodils outside Brochain's are flowering at last; other years they can be out before February.

Up the road, afternoon.

A whole grey-brown hydrangea head is blown and bounced down the Brochain's garden path.  It puts one in mind of a tumbleweed, or a whelk's empty egg-case on the beach.

Up the road, morning. But she's mine and I love her.

The young cocker, white coat tasselled with black and ears black-fringed, is exquisitely named Ermine.  Delicately angular, deep muzzled and feathery, she makes Mol look round and dishevelled and small-headed.

Down the road, evening.

The lower the sun goes down below the horizon behind us, the higher is the coloured band across the top of the hills in front where its light still reaches.

Up the road, afternoon.

It really is a skylark, full song.  Trying to see it makes me sneeze; I'm sure when I was younger I could always find them, but now focussing is impossible.