Trédaniel plan d'eau, afternoon

Stray shoots of cotoneaster are a firm deep green, woven with egg-yolk yellow blossoms of kerria, blood red winter stems of dogwood against the water, a surprising tapestry of colour.

Up the road, early evening

The road is a stream-bed with melt-water, rippling tarmac. Molly's paws go plip-plap.

White mist rises from snow, which looks like someone has scraped patches of colour from the landscape.

Up the road, early evening

The cloud hiding the setting sun is truly anvil-shaped, flat-topped, blunted into a wedge one end, drawn to a point the other, and backlit by an orange glow.

Happy Christmas.

Down the road, early evening.

My fifty-first year to heaven.  We crunch the cold hard-frosted leaves and mud-iced ruts; my right thumb hurts its winter hurt.  A solitary grey heron beats over the further field.

Up the road, afternoon

The birdsong from Victor's apple tree sounds exotic in intensity.  Robins' voices seem to grow more full-throated, richer as the year closes; is this why they are on Christmas cards?

Up the road, late afternoon.

This north wind which brought us hail and light snow early this morning is ear-achingly bitter.  We hurry home to a fire, hot food, and an extra hour in bed.

Parc de la Corne de Cerf, Lamballe, afternoon

The second fruiting green figs by the path can wait another month before picking for pickling, but there are plenty of chestnuts, larger and cleaner than our local wild ones.

Down the road, early evening.

Soon we shan't be coming out during this clear, cool hour between Mol's dinner and ours.  The nights will draw in, the clocks fall back, but mornings will be easier .

Tredanial plan d'eau, morning.

A white egret, a grey heron and a black cormorant rise in turn as we approach the water.  A green woodpecker, heard but not seen, cackles as they fly off.

Hill above Hénon, late morning

 Mol wanders in circles.  A family: two children, baby in sling, no dog, pile out of their car, look out to the distant sea, then set off into the woods.

Up the road, evening.

Air like wine, a cliché, but now after the rain the air and light are like a glass of Anjou rosé, not too chilled, sweet, quaffable, easy and indulgent. Drink deep.

Down the road, evening. Bon appetit.

Ludovic seems just a boy to me, but seeing him eating and relaxing outside with younger family and friends, dog, baby, house, slightly thinning hair, he is quite the paterfamilias.

Down the road, evening (Saturday).

We've waited until it's cool enough to walk. The wheat is all cut and the straw lies in loose piles, breathing and relaxing before being baled into great, friendly rolls.

Approach to Bogard, morning (Friday)

A bronze coloured dragonfly perches and hops on the wire of the electric fence like a tightrope walker, sequinned wings quivering in its balancing act, legs flexed in elegant calligraphy.

Tredaniel plan d'eau, afternoon.

Swallows and sand martins from above, trout from below break through the barriers of their elements and gravity to lunge and splash for insects over the surface of the water.