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.