I don't know, maybe it's my tyneside upbringing, but there's something totally irresistable about a little cove filled with shallow rock pools. Hours, possibly days, could be spent happily lifting stones to see what weirdess lurks beneath.
This was exactly what we found at Jackson's Bay. I managed to snare a couple of fearsome crabs (one of which was a good inch claw to claw) before the missus told me off for not coming home for me tea and hauled me back to the van by my earlobe, saying I'd been a very naughty boy.
The second beach we came across at Ship's Creek was a more open, expansive affair. If you've ever been lucky enough to visit Bamburgh, you'll know exactly the type of thing I'm talking about. The driftwood was the star of the show here. Loads of the stuff was strewn everywhere, some seemed years old, battered by the waves and sculpted by the wind into the most unlikely shapes.
By the end of the afternoon we'd made it as far north as the Fox glacier.
Well, we'd done the massive mountains, the huge fjords and the lakes the size of inland seas, so why not complete the set by visiting a sheet of ice the size of 120 football pitches that's been around for a few million years.
Just what is it with this country and big things?
After walking up to the glacier face, which at roughly a couple of hundred feet tall is impressive enough, we hiked to the top of the valley to get a bird's eye view. And this is where I run out of words to describe big. Maybe I should concentrate on the colours; vivid blues in amongst aqua-marine greens and of course twenty shades of white (we'll not get into the argument as to whether white is a colour, not now anyway).
Our little digital camera simply couldn't cope with so much information, in fact I suspect there hasn't been a microchip invented yet that could handle an image the size and complexity of the Fox glacier.
Magical stuff.
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