Only yesterday a thick fog clung to the shore, out of which a single curlew leapt into life, peeping his call as he flew over. Nose to the sand, I ran in pursuit of life as is my custom but I could feel the damp on my back and a sadness on the silent sea. The oystercatcher nodded but he was all alone as well; the heron, once again, a miserable wretch fishing lanquidly, all interest lost, between the rocks. All of us wet from that jungly drizzle, there was much melancholy then. And yet this morning, as once again day dawned, a golden sun warmed and filled the dunes with light the colour of Lucozade. A new haircut, a favourite trip out, the arrival of some special soap, the chance to paint some more – such tiny bits of grace but all the more delightful for their inconsequentiality: these are in my mind as we trudge home and I chance upon a dead tennis ball with which to tease poor Barnaby. Happy are we who take each day in our stride, leaning hard and looking out to sea, towards the east, no matter what the tide brings: ‘The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo’.