The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour

It is mild, foggy and manageable again, the tree trunks greasy and sleek, a very few abstract shapes of icicles, fallen and broken or attaching still to brambles and ivy.

Tredaniel plan d'eau, morning

One stone tossed onto the ice rests there, the second splashes and sinks.  Frosted edges sharpen the identity of  every leaf.

Short fat hazel catkins hold sturdily to bare winter branches.

Down the road, early evening.

The swept-up, bare branches of the poplars in the valley look like the bristles of great brushes, turned upside-down to sweep the drifts of dust-blue cloud across the evening sky.

Lamballe plan d'eau, morning

The water is unaccountably low; ducks mooch around unaccustomed stony beaches, herons and cormorants stand proud in the middle, and the clumps of moor grass no longer make floating islands.

Hill above Henon, evening

We stop on the way home, and walk by headlight and torchlight.  The village below, church and houses, glow, and the lights along the coast far off shine like beads.

Down the road, late afternoon

A quad bike slithers up the road as we slither down it.

Two spikes of dock and the line of the electric fence are all that break the snow's whiteness.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon

The snow, which has not long started, is still at the granular stage, settling on the sandy paths but not yet on the grass, and creaking rather than crunching underfoot.