Up the road, morning.

Sunshine. Fieldfare in the ash tree shouts loud as a magpie. Little old dog, slow and distracted, cheerful.

My heart full and heavy as a silk purse filled with gold.

Down the road, evening.

There are splashes and flashes of light and shadow across the world, a theatre of sun and wind conducted from very high by a dancing cirrus djinn with ribboning fingers.

Up the road, afternoon.

Daddy-longlegs are everywhere, floundering stupidly over road and verges, banging into us.  Why aren't there birds to eat them?  The swallows could have feasted but it's too late, they're gone.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

The shadows of trout, red-finned and huge, drift then splash and churn the water noisily as I pass.  Oh please no, not the bloody Schubert Trout Suite earworm again...

Down the road, evening.

The sun has set on us, but not on the maize one field away, nor the masts on Bel-Air, nor the jet-trails above, nor the wings of six gulls flying.

Down the road, evening

There are plenty of swallows flying, but I realise they are no longer gathering in chattering crowds on the wires, or waking us early, singing from the gutters and aerial.

Down the road, Friday evening

Am odd patch of yellow catches my eye; we take the field track to see.  It is a single sunflower, with a round, pale centre, self-seeded among the feed cabbages.

Down the road, Thursday early evening.

Large white butterflies in their hundreds flutter everywhere like scraps of torn  paper, feeding, mating, dropping and dying, their bodies, or sometimes just their wings, littered on road and verges.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, Monday

At the edge of the water, a couple of enormous water beetles nudge around in the mud.  We had one like that in our pond once, which we named Gargantua.

Down the road, evening

The red tractor and trailer enters the cut wheatfield, and half submerges in choppy waves of straw. It will gather these up and turn them into golden studs of bales.

Down the road, evening.

Having long assumed it's a plane, discovering another a few miles away, I conclude next-door's tree is a flowerless tulip tree.  Odd, a tulip-less tulip tree, but perhaps not intentional.

Down the road, evening.

The sorrel was a rust-pink haze, the hogweed flowered and seeded in upward asymmetrical, art nouveau curves like something from the Paris metro.

Both are cut, will grow back.

Down the road, afternoon; rough winds do shake...

Victor's apple tree in blossom has been a glory, but now the petals whirl from the branches in horizontal clouds,  speckle the road and follow us home into the hall.

Up the road, evening.

A group of young cattle run to see us.  One is almost pure white, scarcely any black.  Once she might have been considered rare and precious; perhaps she still is.

Up the road afternoon - and would it offend his pride?

Marcel's place, garden uncharacteristically unkempt, elephant's-eye-high grass, worries me. Should I offer to cut it? But our mower needs servicing.

Clouds of blue speedwell on his verge are lovely, though.

Down the road, evening (oops, nearly a month this time...)

Little Maele wears his first combinaison du travail, not the usual blue but smart dark green with white trim, perhaps because he is a commune worker's child, not a farmer's...

Down the road, evening

Wondrous: out at nearly nine, albeit scarved and gloved and hatted; two songthrushes syncopated singing; a chorus of smaller birds; Ludovic's fireplace an orange lantern; being still here, doing this.

Down the road early evening

We can walk at evening again, and setting out, I see the year's first swallow flying over the village, though we'll come home gladly to a fire and hot soup.

Up the road, afternoon

I was reluctant to walk, the day grey and cold, but halfway round I look up at Bel Air, seeing it softly illuminated, a glow and colour not unlike primroses.

Up the road, morning.

Sun sun sun at last, and sharp cold.  A strange blend of haze and clarity; the white shapes of  grain silos and water towers hang in blueness like heavenly cities.

Up the road, afternoon (earlier in the week).

The three daffodils by Brochain's, always early, nodding westwards, make me hanker for travel and movement.  Almost.  But there is home, and warm evenings, and fires still to be enjoyed.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, morning.

A flock of seagulls, myriad white flickering splinters against the black sunlit water.

Spiny livid coils of new gunnera leaves push up from the slimy decay of last year's growth.

Up the road, late afternoon.

Below the known fields the pool's dark mirror shining, catches always; the tall spruce standing opaque sentinel between.

Lone bird leaves on winterwood branches; the blue smoke rising at evening.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

Stray shoots of cotoneaster are a firm deep green, woven with egg-yolk yellow blossoms of kerria, blood red winter stems of dogwood against the water, a surprising tapestry of colour.

Up the road, early evening

The road is a stream-bed with melt-water, rippling tarmac. Molly's paws go plip-plap.

White mist rises from snow, which looks like someone has scraped patches of colour from the landscape.