Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 8.15pm.

It's dusk. A woman on the top road talks into her phone. Suddenly she screams. I freeze. She says: "Jesus Christ, that gave me a fright." My nerves stand down.

St Helena, clockwise. 3.30pm.

He picks up litter and puts it in the bin and wonders how people can drop cups and bottles in a place like this. His brindled dog wants to play.

St Helena, clockwise. 7.30pma

I got up early specially. I thought it would be silent. There is an insistent whining sound coming from town and the crickets have already started. I am very disappointed.

St Helena, clockwise. 3.30pm.

A brown woodlouse. I wonder if he's dyed his shell auburn because he thinks the traditional grey makes him look tired, and now all his friends are laughing at him.

St Helena, clockwise. 4.30pm.

In tree shade, hoverflies hang at eyelevel, loom close and dart away. In sunlight, a white butterfly flaps drunkenly across the path. Seed fluffs surf air currents into the future.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 6.20pm.

Docks are pushing their seeds into the sky. The colour of metal rusting in a dark wet place. The colour of a mahogany table in a rarely-opened dining room.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 7pm.

A stout pigeon (out for an evening waddle) cannot bear to share the path with me. He takes flight in respectable disgust -- even his dust grey feathers wheeze their disapproval.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 4pm.

The creeping slugs have slid out today. They are dirty mac brown and the deep wet wrinkles on their backs are scored like the chasms in faded Brylcreemed hair.

Rock Cottage, clockwise. 2.45pm.

I like to move up out of the cool shaded air in the valley to the warm still air in the sun at the top of the zig-zag path.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 6pm.

A birch tree on the hill holds up green-grey tresses and skirts. A shudder runs through the leaves as if the tree is disgusted by something in the grass.

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.