A dead seal greeted me as I ran from the dunes first thing, the first casualty of crueller seas. Bless its bulkiness, its simple smile. What could have brought it so low other than perhaps the affliction of weariness to which Uncle Jonny succumbed. To every thing there is a season. Along towards Bamburgh, on the other side of the rocks, a camera club amazed us with their unexpected encampment on a normally deserted stretch of sand. Six tripods topped with cameras all pointed towards a non-too-promising dawn – their chosen exercise, it would seem. We hoped they hadn’t travelled too far for the watery manifestation which developed over the next twenty minutes. Nothing special, you might think, but a miracle nevertheless, and nothing to take for granted, as Bertrand Russell once said. Later, another act of faith brought us to a green and pleasant hill among the Cheviots. The cows were surprised that we had found such isolation to interrupt but watched in welcome as we drove to the top to find the hermitage with its Byzantine chapel. Like a miracle, it transforms a ruin into a place where saints and sinners meet. As a small, simple creature, my place is always in the heart of those who love me and who seek for truth, whether by sight or sound or in the imagination. Like a king or prince before the Lord, I saw St Cuthbert with his otter and raven, also looking up in expectation towards the light on this dim and dingy day. We were not disappointed.