Up the road, afternoon, Pentecost Sunday.

 Anne, Marcel and Victor recall when they were young at Pentecost, dancing all night in the streets and cafés.  Victor is nearly ninety, Anne nearly a hundred, Marcel somewhere between.

Up the road, afternoon

I regret not bringing the camera; what looks like a curled dead leaf on a grass stem is a newly-emerged lime hawk moth, in shades of buff, persimmon and pistachio.

Approach to Bogard, afternoon

I spy a horse mushroom, the size of a tea plate, seemingly perfect, and carry it home carefully. It turns out later to be insect ridden, but not to worry.

Woods below Notre-Dame-du-Haut

Mol turns without hesitating, scrambles down the rocky path and trots across the single lintel stone bridge over the fast-running, deep-cut sluice with ease and familiarity.  I needn't have worried.

Water mill,Guette-es-Lievres

The water roars loud and brown, moss drips on the paddles of the turning mill wheel. Two grey wagtails bob and run on the rocks and low stone riverside wall.

Down the road, afternoon.

Scooters annoy the dogs up the road, who then come down to have a go at us.  To avoid confrontation, I pop Mol over the fence into next door's garden.

Down the road, afternoon

My mother always reckoned May 8th for swallows.  In fact they're around much earlier, but it's only now they seem as thick over the pasture as the insects they're chasing.

Down the road, evening

Spent dandelions stand up like pins, sorrel bolts to red flowerheads.  Two rabbits chase in the field.

Maelle, helping his father in the garden, wears a coat and balaclava still.