Down the road, evening.

Swifts, up from the town, flying high above the swallows.  We only really see them out here at the beginning and end of their season, ranging and feeding, getting ready.

Up the road, afternoon.

Pinky-brown dead leaves from Brochain's eucalyptus tree have fallen into the patches of soft tar on the road.  They flatten and meld and crack, and look like some decorative effect.

Down the road, afternoon.

Swallows are whirling and sweeping effortlessly in and out around the giant bales of straw and over the field of barley stubble as if it were a prickly gold sea.

Down the road, evening, just before the rain.

Only the heron flying between hills and cloudbank is enough for the drama of  soot-grey, sulphurous sky and land, and cylinders of straw, solemn as menhirs in the stubbled fields.

Woods above Arondel, walking Moos with Mol.

It's cooler in the clump of fir trees, and in the pebble-shaped shadows under the beech and holly.  A flash of scarlet reveals the berries of a single wild arum.

Up the road, morning.

The  recent winds have blown down many of the mirabel plums. but many remain unripened on the trees, which means we might be able to come picking them later with visitors.

Up the road, evening.

Clouds whipped and piled like ice-cream on a cold metal counter, taken to the seaside on a chill south wind.  And I ask you, what am I doing wearing shorts?

Down the road, afternoon.

A red admiral, some gatekeepers, a peacock, a male and female brimstone, she prettier, paler and greener than he is, a tortoiseshell, all bright and slow, hatched from the rain.

Down the road, evening (Saturday).

A green combine, its planes and surfaces flashing greyly as it turns through a halo of dust, a rust-red tractor, the field hatched and corrugated, they are cutting the barley.

Water mill, Guettes-es-Lievres, morning.

In the softly flickering limelight of woods and running river, the damselflies are flashes of startling luminescence: electric blue, emerald green and bright copper, dancing over the water like willow-the-wisps.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

It feels like later in the summer than it is, with dry brown grasses, purple knapweed and yellow ragwort, the water lilies finished and the rugosa roses turning into hips already.

Down the road, afternoon.

The small hayfield is cut, fragrant as ambrosia.  Only find a plump pile and lie in it, listen to Mol bustling, try and fail to imagine another way to be.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

As we come down, bramble and hydrangea leaves start to mutter, and approaching the pool, it is circled and drummed dramatically by raindrops, as if the water itself is thirsty.