Bucolic idyll, sun drenched hay bales soaking up the last rays of the setting sun; the sound of children playing on the bales; the smell of freshly cut hay.
Storm clouds and a very heavy downpour; positively brooding clouds in a variety of colours that can only be described as 'bruise'.
As you can see from the empty field the farmer has evidently been listening to the weather forecast, as he spent several hours this morning dashing back and forth from the field with a tractor and trailer full of hay bales.
I love how quickly the British weather turns from 'where did I store my shorts?' and 'do we have any sun lotion?' to 'for heaven's sake put a rain coat on' and 'well at least we won't have to water the pots tonight'.
Sitting here with a cup of herbal tea and the scent of wet earth and rain wafting in through the French windows - lovely.
Jean-Luc has splashed his way to the local pub to watch England's final attempt to regain some dignity in the World Cup; I reckon it all went wrong when we swapped compulsory archery practice for football. I guess the England team can gain some comfort in the fact so many of their team mates from the league seem to be having a much better time of it with their national teams.