Up the road, afternoon.

The roads have become river beds, and getting up the hill in the wind is hard work in the wind.

On the homeward stretch, a patch of blue sky clears.

Down the road, late afternoon.

Two ends of the rainbow, broken pillars, bright to north and south.  Between, a tapering swathe of black cloud, which throws a brief and petulant shower of hail onto us.

Approach to Bogard, afternoon.

The iron gate, flaked painted white and algal greenish, with rosetted medallions, is wedged shut with a flat stone.  Sliding my arm between the bars, I replace it behind me.

Jardins du Thabor, Rennes.

Amorous lovers romp on the 'authorised lawn'; park-keepers berate us for walking on an unauthorised one. 

A cheerful dreadlocked man appears with a troop of footballing children; the lovers desist.

Trédaniel plan d'eau, early evening.

The church clock strikes six; it is bright twilight, reflecting stilly on the face of the water.  Four mallards rest there unwontedly long, then take off towards the lower ponds.

Up the road, afternoon.

Marcelle and Helene, sisters in their eighties, tease me in patois and we grumble about the cold, and how we miss the sun and light. 

So grey, what's to say?

Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

There are many yellow hazel catkins, the only signs of spring save for unfurling foxglove leaves.  On one bush, a single dry brown nut from last autumn remains alongside them.

Down the road, early evening.

After an afternoon with friends of film watching, tea, rock cakes and cheerful chatter, it's good to stretch our legs, and take in the liquid, low sunshine flooding the world.

Up the road, afternoon (Tuesday).

The day is biting cold and grey, so the sun surprises me: a white, palely tinted disc, with a patina of moving cloud, hanging over the pines on the hilltop.

Down the road, evening.

The lapwings stir and rise from the field, as always in company with a white gull or two.  I'm sorry to disturb them, but love seeing their twinkling monochrome flight.

Down the road, late afternoon.

Mildness and murk, and just as far as the corner of our field.  Mol shakes her head in the damp air, and I insist she stays out of the mud.

Pledran, Porridge's woods.

We enjoy a mild, bright, misty day, but our walk is not as it should be.  Where is Porridge?  Muddy and sheepish, she is waiting for us when we return.

Up the road, morning (Sunday)

Released from the Snow Queen's thrall, lapwings glean again in the fields, mistle thrushes whistle their clear, simple tunes, skylarks sing - full song, not fragments - starlings pretend to be blackbirds.  

Approach to Bogard, morning (Saturday).

The pool opposite the chateau is enlarged with meltwater to a lake, and is criss-crossed by many ducks.  I rather wish they were white swans, but they look fine anyway.

Up the road, morning (Wednesday).

Victor and his elderly nephew are attacking the road ice with a pickaxe, old Helene watching.  The are not very systematic or achieving much, but seem to be enjoying themselves.