Up the road, afternoon, Pentecost Sunday.

 Anne, Marcel and Victor recall when they were young at Pentecost, dancing all night in the streets and cafés.  Victor is nearly ninety, Anne nearly a hundred, Marcel somewhere between.

Up the road, afternoon

I regret not bringing the camera; what looks like a curled dead leaf on a grass stem is a newly-emerged lime hawk moth, in shades of buff, persimmon and pistachio.

Approach to Bogard, afternoon

I spy a horse mushroom, the size of a tea plate, seemingly perfect, and carry it home carefully. It turns out later to be insect ridden, but not to worry.

Woods below Notre-Dame-du-Haut

Mol turns without hesitating, scrambles down the rocky path and trots across the single lintel stone bridge over the fast-running, deep-cut sluice with ease and familiarity.  I needn't have worried.

Water mill,Guette-es-Lievres

The water roars loud and brown, moss drips on the paddles of the turning mill wheel. Two grey wagtails bob and run on the rocks and low stone riverside wall.

Down the road, afternoon.

Scooters annoy the dogs up the road, who then come down to have a go at us.  To avoid confrontation, I pop Mol over the fence into next door's garden.

Down the road, afternoon

My mother always reckoned May 8th for swallows.  In fact they're around much earlier, but it's only now they seem as thick over the pasture as the insects they're chasing.

Down the road, evening

Spent dandelions stand up like pins, sorrel bolts to red flowerheads.  Two rabbits chase in the field.

Maelle, helping his father in the garden, wears a coat and balaclava still.

Down the road, evening

The neighbours' border collie, his broken leg all mended and good as new, runs and jumps and barks at us as we pass.  We are happy to see each other.

Tredaniel plan d'eau, afternoon (Wednesday) .

The surface of the water is whipped into wavelets by the wind.  Two sand martins fly over, the first I've seen; they are often earlier than this, and more abundant.

Up the road, afternoon.

The grey hen pheasants scutter up the track like tiny dinosaurs, disappear into the green wheat then fly up.  I let Mol off to enjoy rummaging around after their scent.

The old railtrack, Gare de Moncontour

Two roe deer step across the shadow-striped, celandine-stippled track ahead.  They swivel hare-ears towards us, but don't hurry to scamper away up the path.  I've never seen them here before.

Up the road, afternoon

Old Marcel sits framed by the hedge in his favourite sun trap by the woodpile, in blue work trousers, green pullover and a wide-brimmed straw hat shading his sleeping face.

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Up the road, afternoon.

The primroses seem too wan and delicate, washed out by the bright, hot day.  Suns and moons of dandelion flowers and seed heads shine robustly from the vivid green fields.

Beach at Morieux, afternoon.

We walk to the rocks and see Val André and its islet bright in the sun, but the advancing sea is lapping at our toes, we can go no further.