Down the road, evening

The young heifers in our field, their white and black coats crisp and clean, skip up to the fence eagerly, and follow us down the road on dancing cloven hooves.

Up the road, afternoon

We duck under the electric fence to look at the puffballs.  One is enormous, and wondrously deformed, but  I put one the size of my cupped hands into my pocket.

Woods at Catuelan, above Quessoy, morning

We strike off and take a path I don't know, but Mol seems confident of the way.  Yallery-brownery earthball fungi nestle in the moss and leaf mould like odd stones.

Hill above Hénon, morning.

An empty car and horsebox stand in the car park; a smell of horse lingers at the edge of the woods.  Someone is enjoying a fine ride along the hilltops.

Down the road, afternoon

Next door's crab apples are shading into red and weighing down the branches, and their copper sycamore has lost leaves which lie like screws of brown paper on the grass.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

J and I  gather sloes.  It's early for this but everything is early this year.  We throw them into a straw shopping basket. Mol is tied up in the shade

Down the road, morning

It's hotter than I thought.  We skirt the field edges in search of shade and blackberries, and are followed by some cows, but the grass is still dewy and cool.

Green lane near Henon, afternoon.

Set upright beside an oak and under an bower of elders is a tiny,old, green plastic child's garden chair, with a sprinkling of leaf litter on the seat.  Odd!  

Down the road, afternoon.

Weeds are childhood cyphers: nettles to sting you, docks to rub on after, sorrel tastes of lemon and the plantains' ruffs are Mary Queen of Scots.  Raindrops are our diamonds...