The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour

It is mild, foggy and manageable again, the tree trunks greasy and sleek, a very few abstract shapes of icicles, fallen and broken or attaching still to brambles and ivy.

Tredaniel plan d'eau, morning

One stone tossed onto the ice rests there, the second splashes and sinks.  Frosted edges sharpen the identity of  every leaf.

Short fat hazel catkins hold sturdily to bare winter branches.

Down the road, early evening.

The swept-up, bare branches of the poplars in the valley look like the bristles of great brushes, turned upside-down to sweep the drifts of dust-blue cloud across the evening sky.

Lamballe plan d'eau, morning

The water is unaccountably low; ducks mooch around unaccustomed stony beaches, herons and cormorants stand proud in the middle, and the clumps of moor grass no longer make floating islands.

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.