wet

Personally it is many years since I have found joy in getting soaked at the beach on a blustery spring day.  But then I am older and creakier and I found joy in watching the runners and their friends shriek with laughter as they chased the waves with the dogs.

A slight diversion on the way north, not helped by the dubious map reading of runner number one (clearly used to tracks and well marked cross country routes rather than a map and a road!) but we arrived at one of our favourite pubs for a body building lunch (you needed strong arms just to lift the amazing chunky chips) before we hit the beach.

Our beach. There was NOBODY there but us.  Three miles of sandy beach and the North Sea and us.  The dogs went wild (except for River, who is well aware that I keep biscuits in my pocket and didn’t stray too far for fear of missing out on snack time) and the girls got wet.  Very, very wet.  Very, very wet indeed.  I could hear the sea in their wellies as we trudged back across the dunes.

They were happy and tired and wet.  I was happy and tired and dry.

 

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