Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 2pm.

They talk quietly. His change is clinking in his pocket. Our footsteps are out of sync. That lorry grunts as it climbs the hill. The crickets whirr out of control.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 6pm.

When I walk next to you, I'm not interested in yellow leaves twisting from trees, or gravel washed in braids down the path, and I don't care about 30 words.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 2.45pm.

When bronze flies and red-eyed flies leap into the air, it is hard to believe they (and the whole world) were not created by an infinitely curious retired engineer.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 6.45pm.

Slugs toil with thoughtful patience up the wet path. I plant my own heavy progress, step-by-step, over and around them and wonder if this will ever be easy.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 3pm.

On the Lower Cricket Ground: the wind sneaks up behind a picnicking couple. It ruffles their hair, snatches an empty bag and runs off. They give chase, shouting with laughter.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 4pm.

I don't like to walk past these two men on a bench when I am thinking of something to describe. One of them is eating beans from a can.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 5.15pm.

I was going to tell how a corpse in sailcloth turned out to be an old duvet. But I saw Master Fox flick his white-tipped tail among the bracken.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 7.30pm.

All the grand houses on the other side of London Road are shading their eyes against the sun so they can squint up at the twists and threads of cloud.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 9.30pm.

A strange sky -- the canopy is light, the ridges of high clouds picked out by a sun far below our horizon. But low dark clouds are piling in from below.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 2.30pm.

The reflective flank of a black car parked in the sun captures (but will not keep) the moving image of a passing blood red Mini. This is cinema by chance.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 5pm.

The sun shines through ripe grass that sways in drifts on the bank above us. The stems are so beautiful, slender and blonde that I hardly dare write about it.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 6.15pm.

Needle cold rain pricks us at the top of the hill. By the time we turn the corner, a mist of clinging drizzle has fuzzed our world. Reality needs re-tuning.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 3.45pm.

Ants in shining black armour have moved sand and soil, grain by grain, to make themselves a cavernous fortress among the roots of grass. Today, the lawn; tomorrow, the world.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 2.30pm.

It is so still (apart from the rain falling straight down out of an unknowable sky, the thunder rolling around, and the traffic on its way). It is so still.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 2.15pm.

The hot pink willowherb spires sway in waves on the skyline -- splashes of colour in a world first bleached by the sun and then dulled by a rain-dodging day.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 5.45pm.

This is a tiny bird. She is so light she can land on one of the ragged grassheads (stripped of seeds and bleached by the sun) without it bending.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 8.15pm.

Where last night the rain flowed down the edges of the paths, ripe grass seeds lie waiting for the wind. Each one is a love letter addressed to next summer.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. Noon.

The unseen crickets in the drying grass whirr out their tenth of second ticks as if they wish to fast-forward time to bring on the cool of the evening.