Approach to Bogard, afternoon.

As I drive up, I see a flock of curlews in a ploughed field beside the road.  Gull-like, they fly low across the chocolatey  earth, patterned mottled brown and white.

The old railtrack, gare de Moncontour, morning.

Never too late to discover a new path; this one, unnoticed before under weeds and leafmould, scrambles precipitously to a pretty cascade on the Evron river we've not visited before.

Tredaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

The soft wool of Tom's coat sleeve is warm and dry under my hand.  We walk slowly, with many pauses, over the rain soaked grass and broken, powdering leaf mould.

Up the road, afternoon.

A flock of gulls swirls chaotically over the fields; behind them grimy streaks from the clouds, which come down as hail. We have no hats, and want to be home.

Up the road, afternoon.

This time last week the mirabelle trees were bare, today they are powdered in places with white.  A fire's smoke makes a changing white background for the shapes of branches.

Tredaniel plan d'eau afternoon

The mist which has surrounded us everywhere all day leaves a greyish film of condensation on the grass.  Two mallards fly up and away over the water and the trees.

Watermill, Guette-es-Lievres, afternoon

Shoots of bluebell and daffodil spike through the leaf mould.  Where the river forks by the big house, a man is wading thigh-deep, apparently  to encourage his golden retriever to swim.

Approach to Bogard, afternoon.

Leap-day, a day out of time, brilliant precocious spring with daisies and shining suns of celandines.  I stop here on my way to the airport; everything is on the move.

The old railtrack, morning

The canopy of the woods is thick with bird sound, woodpeckers whir like ratchets from tree after tree.  A flock of tits accompanies us for a while, chiding and chivvying.

Approach to Bogard, afternoon.

The Morse code call, and looking up I see two nuthatches high in the poplars.  I crane my neck uncomfortably, but fear to change position in case I lose them.

The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour, late afternoon

There are icicles, perhaps a metre long, hanging where the springs trickle down over the rocks and tree roots.  Despite the lowering light, they seem to possess an inner luminescence.

Approach to Bogard, late morning

A fallen poplar twig has quite big glossy buds, sticky with balsam.  Great tits and blue tits flitter among the branches, there are some celandine around, though few other flowers.

Down the road, evening.

Nearly six and still light. Birdsong, birdsong, blackbirds and a thrush at the corner of every field, though still there's a cold wind in our faces when we turn around.

Up the road, morning

My it's cold.  We're only out because the car wouldn't start and Mol was done out of an outing.  But she struggles and needs encouragement and massage to keep going.

Up the road, afternoon

At the corner at le Boissy there is a particularly good clump of sorrel, the leaves as large as spinach.  I collect a handful to make sauce for tonight's salmon.