Down the road, evening. (Why not, I've neglected it long enough?)

The solitary small orange and brown butterfly wanders along, then settles on the verge among the grass blades and buttercups. It takes off again as my shadow falls on it.

Down the road, early evening.

The countryside has turned furry: plush heads of barley and also the seeds of willow, which have been filling the air with lint for days, tickling our eyes and noses.

Down the road, early evening.

The red buds of the sorrel are emerging; I associate them with mild and sunny days, a chalky pink haze against the bright greens of the late spring grass and verges.

Approach to Bogard, afternoon.

Violets, purple vetch, red clover, stitchwort, woodspurge, speedwell and alkanet,  primroses still,.  We walk as far as the fishing pool and sit on the low stone parapet of the bridge.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

There is an algal growth which I have not seen here before, ominous of nitrate pollution.  The unseasonable cold wind has blown it into a corner, a spongy, wrinkled green mass.

Up the road, afternoon.

Despite the poplars glowing coppery gold in the sun, the bright green grass and wheat, the dandelions turning to clocks, it is cold; I almost wish I were wearing gloves.

Lamballe, round the lake, with Iso and Princeling.

Momentarily, I'm back twenty years, and the one who runs and clambers and chuckles ahead, frowns and smiles at me from brown-gold eyes under forward-falling hair, is my sister's lad.

Hill above Hénon, afternoon.

The spring wheat, whose tramlines we walk down, is one green, the horizontal haze of new beech another, the leaflets emerging from the dark strokes of the chestnuts another still.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon.

A largish adder suns itself on the path, until becoming aware I'm watching it and making off  into the marshy grass.

Despite this, we lie happily under the flowering crabtree.

Up the road, afternoon.

Here and there in the verges there is a bright yellow buttercup standing out among the crowds of stitchwort, like a glossy fried egg yoke standing out from the white.    

No. 501 - Up the road early evening.

[ I just noticed that before this recent pause in activity here, I had reached 500 posts.  I have appreciated the combination of discipline and indulgence which this blog has offered me, and with the change of season and renewed resolve, I'll try to write here more regularly now.]

~~~

Ash and oak, splash or soak, seem to be about neck and neck here, so who knows what we'll get?  The leaves everywhere are catching rapid fire, a greening blaze.

Up the road, afternoon.

Spring is put on hold.  Everywhere is covered in a cold white layer of cloud, and the wind is chill.  Yet the dandelions are bursting yellow suns in the fields.

Down the road, late afternoon.

For the first time this year, sandals, rather over-optimistic.  As the muckspreading tractor passes, we step onto the verge, and I receive my first nettle sting of the year too.

Up the road, afternoon

The swallows have been here for a week or so, but silently, feeding and restoring their strength.  Today they are singing, coming together in flittering displays as they swoop upward.

Water mill, Guettes-es-Lievres, morning.

The daffodils stretch up and out of sight.  With the light behind them, they glow like yellow stars, I feel as if we are walking through galaxies of them.