Hill above Henon, evening

We stop on the way home, and walk by headlight and torchlight.  The village below, church and houses, glow, and the lights along the coast far off shine like beads.

Down the road, late afternoon

A quad bike slithers up the road as we slither down it.

Two spikes of dock and the line of the electric fence are all that break the snow's whiteness.

Quessoy arboretum, afternoon

The snow, which has not long started, is still at the granular stage, settling on the sandy paths but not yet on the grass, and creaking rather than crunching underfoot.

Up the road, afternoon

Really the strangest weather: warm sunshine and mild, but with grainy snow swirling down.  By the time we get round though, it is harder and colder, bouncing off Molly's nose.

Watermill, Guette-es-Lievres, afternoon.

The autumn leaves are thin and transparent and lacy.  The river must have flooded very recently, parts of the path are washed clean of leaves and covered in soft silt.

Down the road,early evening.

It is early evening, which not so long ago would have been afternoon.  Everywhere is desaturated by rain and greyness, a white achillea flower looks like a piece of litter.

Up the road, afternoon

An odd white cable hangs, free and apparently purposeless, from the electricity pole..  It flaps and taps in the wind against the pole like a halyard on a boat's mast.

Down the road, early evening.

I light our first fire, to air the house, before we go out, and smell the smoke from it on the damp mild air all the way down the road.

The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour

In spring this deep shadowy stretch is dotted with hawthorn petals, in summer laced with spent chestnut catkins, and now bristly with rotting chestnut husks and patterned with yellow leaves.

Up the road, afternoon.

We venture further afield looking for sloes, but I've left it late, and many are withered and finished.  Then, when nearly home, we find a bush of fat glossy ones.

Up the road, afternoon.

A very tiny old lady, unknown to me, buttonholes me on the corner.  She's staying with her daughter, but homesick for Paris; here, she says, it is like a desert.

Approach to Bogard, afternoon.

I know the silky plates and domes of these mushrooms are edible, but not worth the bother.  Leave them to be beautiful among the heart-shaped leaf litter of the poplars.

Up the road, afternoon.

Whilst enjoying the scenery, I'm thinking about making things: Christmas cards from photos, sloe gin, chicken fricassee and rice with some of the jar of chestnut puree mixed into it...

Up the road, afternoon.

In an explosion of noise and colour, a cock pheasant bursts up out of Marcelle's orange marigold bed.  I am sorry to have driven it from its place of safety.

Up the road, afternoon.

The wind from the north which blows my hair out sideways, also carries a late, hasty swallow, flying low and lonely across the track, over the fields and far away.