61.

Mid October.

Soft seeds float high in the warm wind. Pied wagtails chitter in groups on the roof and then take off in a loud crowd.

I cannot believe what I have seen over these last few days. At 2000 meters, in the most beautiful valley and national reserve: 5 griffon vultures, circling and circling and glinting in the harsh sunlight; a brown bear, a family of marmots and a tough walk.

Then lower here on another day a racket of magpies and crows mobbing a juvenile golden eagle, its white patches on the wings and tail quite distinct. It flapped low and then soared low and then disappeared over a wood. I had to write to every one about that.

Emile is a little more soothed. He has brought the herds down from the high pastures, the transhumance in reverse. With great clanging and lowing the grey-dun cattle trip and clatter into the two yards, head after head milling and waiting to be counted and marked.

Sylvie remarks on the potential veal and I say the calves are too handsome to die. Bertrand waves a strand of the last tomatoes at me. Do I want them? I gladly make a sauce out of them with onions, garlic, chervil and olive oil and freeze what I can’t eat today.

It rains at last.