Escape from the Rattling kingdom of Phlegm

I've, at last, yanked myself free from the sputumous stranglehold of the rattling kingdom of Phlegm that is the flu ridden erse-end of 2017. The nasal passageways are clear. The trainers have been dusted off and I even gave myself a 20 mile treat on Sunday with an solo ultra- run in fine crisp conditions. It took 2hrs, 30 minutes which puts me in 3:20 shape for March's marathon.
I was in Beadnall today, just down the coast from Seahouses and the forbidding, historical ramparts of Bamburgh Castle. It was a quick visit and the thought of a run up the coast along the sand had entered my mind. However, I had no gloves and didn't fancy taking on the slicing bitter north easterly which was blowing in from the Scandinavian snow caps of Bergen.

The sky was gloomy, grey and doleful. Spitting. No matter. 'I am made of sterner stuff' I told myself as I drove to Seahouses and parked up; with the heater on (I might add). Across the bare, wet sand whipped tarmac was a shop that sells tat, but this includes a range of cheap gloves and on exiting the bazaar and having paid my £2.99, I was good to go. I strapped on the garmin and it was a slow 3 miles northward to Bamburgh. The cloud was low and the sea angry and green. The breakers had 'no mercy' tattooed on their knuckles; the Farne Islands sat shivering under a dark blue and heavy sky. I pulled my hat down further over my ears and ploughed on. I felt the ipod was shuffling up some apposite tunes; Boston, Tears for Fears...god forbid I actually got out of the 80's. Katy Perry kept trying to get in, but she was cut off at the pass; in the first few bars, in her prime;

The Salomons failed predictably to cope with the slippy wet limestone outcrops that peppered the beach, but I remained upright.  The edge of the water was frothing as it ebbed and flowed and the golden sand fresh and firm underfoot. Other than a few dog walkers it was deserted. Occasional screeches of gulls and parcels of oyster-catchers stood their ground as I persevered into the wind, stopping for the odd photo. There's a whole range of collective nouns for bird species and I fancy I will bring in a further few into future blogs (after all, who can resist a 'conventicle' of magpies, a 'wisdom' of owls or a 'fecoffski' of hopping ravens). 
I checked my watch and realised that I would be pushing it to get back to the car before the ticket ran out, so it was up and off the beach, and back around the imposing castle walls with the whispering gargled voice of Æthelfrith in one ear. It was just the sort of day that he would be laid up, sitting by a fire, swigging ale from a wooden tumbler and polishing his helmet.
The road back from Bamburgh to Seahouses is flat and runs parallel to the coast and with the tailwind behind me, I clocked 3 sub seven minute miles as I high tailed it back to Seahouses, just as the Council van pulled into the car park. The thought of trying to do 6 minute mile-ing is as close to it as I get these days.
 I stopped at Lidl coming home for some mince and tonight its Mince and Tatties. I like it with loads of pepper, but don't tell Auntie Aggie that. I enjoy watching her cough uncontrollably as the innocuous seasoning ambushes her halfway through her dinner. Ahh, simple pleasures!