Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

This arboretum specialises in different oaks - the etymology of 'Quessoy' is related to an old word for 'oak'.  A saw-tooth leafed (?) species recalls how closely they are related to sweet chestnuts.

Up the road, afternoon.

The Russian woman's house door is open, and some shoes and a small, deep blue glass vase stand on the step.  But she herself is still not to be seen.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

Amongst the samey overcooked foliage of the season and the river's low-running sludginess, a bed of hydrangeas, blues and whites, and purple heathers flowering makes a welcome splash of colour.

Up the road, afternoon.

Victor's dahlias are in full swing in the patch in front of his concrete breeze wall.  Some of them are perfectly balanced bicolours, like stylised red and white cauliflowers.

Up the road, morning.

At this time, you can walk into pools of shadow which are virgin shade, not yet touched by the sun.  They have a deeper, cooler, more intense feel to them.

Down the road, evening.

The bird pivoting and bobbing over the wheatfield is too light and agile for a buzzard.  Sure enough, I catch the white ring-tail of a female hen-harrier, an infrequent sight.

Down the road, afternoon.

Pierre Poisson drives his old orange tractor across the levelled dusty field.  In the shovel behind it are three of his grandchildren, Sarah, Sebastian and Quentin, in green cut-down overalls.

Hill above Hénon, evening.

The faraway sea and cloudbank are broad bands of Persian blue, but between is a rose sky, with engraved towers of cloud, tiny with distance, more luminous than the fields.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

The sandy path wavers almost unbearably with heat and light, the sun rebounding pitilessly from its glassy surface.  We shade-hop, glad to take the cooler tree-lined grassy route at last.

Up the road, afternoon.

The last field of wheat is still to be cut, brown and dry and tired, the bristled heads bending over on themselves, as if asking for the relief of harvest.