Trying not to think about my dead Mac, I concentrated on enjoying the sun this morning. The dog was beside herself chasing after the pebbles I threw into the shallows for her, and she practically exploded when I skimmed a shell across the flat sea.

When I leave the beach, I take a route back behind the Rose Gardens. I love this time of year - the End Of Winter at last. The brightening of the trees. I love to see the sticky red buds bursting out of papery bark, and the tiny shouts of brilliant colour as vivid green pom-poms of leaves begin to unfurl. Birdsong.

I turned into the walled gardens behind Cumberland House, and there, in the middle of the path, was a baby mouse. No bigger than the end of my thumb, a fluff of grey velvet and pink toes. And black eyes - so black they shone. I stood still, the dog strained on her lead, and we watched. It must have seen us, but it didn't seem concerned. Then it meandered across the path, and disappeared.

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