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.
The sea was bigger tonight, just twenty four hours after we all swam in it with the sun on us. Only Newman braved the waves today, a grimmer day, though the beginning of a holiday. He is undeterred by anything, whether raging seas and gale-force winds, being brave and strong, and all he needs is encouragement to enter the water, as if permission enhances his delight. I myself can swim well, but only when I see a purpose to it: to retrieve, or return to shore when I have been carried out in someone’s arms for fun. To Newman, though, the sea is everything and seasonal distinctions mean nothing; carving his way through the waves, he is a remakable sight, much admired by strangers who wonder at his skills. I have as yet no made my mark in any way but I am still young. Barnaby, who is an enthusiastic retriever of the ball, obsessive in determination to outdo competition, has had his career cruelly cut short by injury. He cannot be allowed to jump on the sand any longer as his legs hurt him afterwards. He is old before his time, like this August evening which looks like winter. We must act while we can.
I think I need a haircut again. Does the warm weather make it grow? I am patient and upside down (mostly) when the scissors come out and then the lawn is trimmed, which also does for collecting my fur. Next door they are cutting down two mature fruit trees, a plum and an apple. The sound of the chainsaw is really terrifying and we are all sad as we see the sky take the place of leaves and purple fruit. The warm glow in this photo reflects the presence of our dearest and oldest friend on the day she passed out of our lives. She went far too young and full of life right up until the end, despite her illness. My fur will grow again soon but she and the lovely trees are gone forever.