15.

April 17th.

A mower in the distance announces a good day. A jay, as bold as you like, loops in and out of an old Laurel, pounces onto the grass and is up again. It seems a long time ago now when I could hear the jays quarrelling and grating over the autumn acorns.

Winter survived, the frogs are declaring loudly around the pond, accompanied by the rising bubble and jug of the nightingales, hidden in the scrubby copses. Joy,--in spite of the wind, for it is, indeed, spring.

It`s breathtaking to brush through the prairie fields full of ragged robin, lady orchids, ox eye daisies and rusty sorrel flowers and to listen to the shivering of new, silver backed poplar leaves.
I can lie back in a patch and listen to the frantic business of the insect hordes. I can watch the black redstart, indignantly flicking its tail and chkk-chkking at a cat, slowly meandering its way through the long grass, dark ear tips just visible.

This is the life. Spring, the glorious season. A good number of the trees have survived that winter and there’s a promise of real heat in the air. To confirm it I hear a hoopoe. It is ‘churring’ at me from the walnut tree, in warning. Then it takes off on its skidaddling flight, beautiful black and white wing markings fanning its flight towards the big ash, where it sets up its ‘hoop- hoop hoop’ call.

14.

April 13th.

Sylvie is coming with me to buy eye drops at the pharmacie. She sits on two cushions in the passenger seat of the van so that she might see out. She is watching the fields and houses go by and remarking on who lived there, worked there, died there. The shoe factory closed long ago, where she used to walk, 6km.each day. Those were the days, she sighs. Now she doesn`t see many people. Bertrand drives very occasionally, to fetch diesel for the tractor or strimmer, to do some shopping, and she may go with him if the various delivery vans haven't quite stocked what she wants.. She misses chatting with her old friends. She is quite a walker, nevertheless, and we often tramp around the rough surfaced lanes, looking at the carpets of cowslips and orchids, so that she may stop and gossip with one or two passing acquaintances.

‘I'm not walking out on my own’, she comments, ‘anything could happen. You hear of such terrible things on the news. Aren’t you fearful when you walk alone?’
‘No, Sylvie, that’s just the television for you. One or two bad things happen, but France is a huge country’
‘All the same, I’m glad when you are around to stroll with me’. There’s praise indeed.

Last night, just after dusk, I watched a barn owl sweep low through the farmyard, a little owl flop from telegraph wire to pole and heard the first scopps owl calling monotonously for a mate: “meep……meep…….meep….”. [Owl heaven, but cat city too!]