Every morning as we run along the beach towards Bamburgh I think about St Oswald, who lived there long ago. He made the humble monk St Aidan his ambassador to the poor. He was greatly loved by the locals, for his goodness and generosity. I imagine them both walking there, looking at whatever the sea is doing out by St Cuthbert’s cell on Inner Farne, as we do. Whatever the weather and despite whatever wind is thrown at us, out we go, blessed to be free along the strand which is both so majestic and magical. This week St Aidan was honoured with a beautiful shrine on the spot in the church where Bede tells us that he died. The church was full for the first time in ages and now that there is a focal point there perhaps others will come to know him better, as he is more clearly visible. In our own way, we have a sort of shrine too, where Jonny lies and where the wild flowers grow. His presence amongst us is wonderfully cheering, as is St Aidan’s. We are so lucky in our little corner of the county: much medicine is to be found.