It has been raining all morning but around 1pm it eases off so I pull myself together and head out. Through the eye of the needle and across the corn field, I turn left and continue along the coast path to the caravan site at Marshall Meadows. Turning round to take a photo I see a bedraggled runner walking a little wearily towards me. He is wet and muddy and wears a number on his shorts. I wonder where he has come from and where he’s going to, but all is made clear further up the path.

Leaving the caravans behind I find myself standing in a large farmyard. Off to the left is a narrow lane and as I have all the time in the world today I walk down it to take a look. These wooden pods look interesting, particularly in the mist and the horse is friendly. Even though I had a horse for three years when I was a child, I am still a bit wary of those I don’t know – but he allows me to rub his velvety muzzle.

Back up the lane I go, following some explicit instructions…………

Up ahead, another runner………….camera seems to have also caught a swallow/swift in mid flight.

And then the penny drops…..a marathon – but not just an ordinary marathon, an Ultra Marathon of 100 miles from Bamburgh Castle to Edinburgh Castle. Runners have 48 hours to complete the task and when I looked it up later it seems that there was a 60% success rate despite apocalyptic and relentless bad weather. No wonder the runner in the campsite was looking weary.

I am getting close now and the excitement is mounting……….and here I am with a Marathon Marshall to greet me. Bursting to tell somebody about how far I’ve come I present him with an abridged version, but he does not seem overly impressed. Feeling a little deflated I turn round just as two more panting runners approach.

Just as they pass me I realise that In my excitement I have forgotten to get a photo of myself at the border so I retrace my steps.

This time the Marshall, who’s wearing a kilt but admits he’s from Doncaster, is much more friendly and asks all the right questions about my coastal walk. And this time I get my photo and one of him for good measure.

The “haar” (cold sea fog on the east coast of England and Scotland) is now lifting a little as I head back to the farm buildings and caravan site.

I now have to find a way back to Berwick and Traveline tells me that there is not another bus for 40 minutes – and then the heavens open. There is really nowhere to shelter in the farmyard so I dash across to a house where it clearly says Reception – probably for the caravan site. The door is opened by an ancient gentleman who looks at me as if I’ve come from another planet. To my request for a local taxi number he offers up a loud grunt and shuffles off to find his hard faced wife.

“So you’ll be wanting a taxi will you” she says, shooting me a baleful look and after shuffling a few papers around on the window sill she thrusts a card into my hands and shuts the door before I can even say thank you. “Charming” ….as my father used to say.

Anyway, I don’t have to stand shivering in the rain for long before a cheery taxi driver turns up and takes me home. It certainly does take all sorts.

Distance: 3 important miles