Juneathon day eight: sandy

This weekend we’ve taken Juneathon on the road to visit my friend. She’s responsible for me starting running and was my regular running buddy until she selfishly fell in love and upped sticks to Scotland. She’s my oldest friend (in that we’ve known each other over 20 years, not that she’s like Methuselah) and we’re at that stage where we have to stay friends because she knows where (nearly) all of the bodies are buried…

When we catch up our weekends are usually somewhat booze-filled, but in an amazing bit of coincidental timing, she’s about 6 weeks ahead of me in the old pregnancy game. This meant it’s been a much more sober affair and conversation has focused more around boobs and pethidine (incidentally, the only pain relief leaflet I have been given so far was about aromatherapy. I remain unconvinced).

Anyway, we usually have the good intention of going for a run (and I return home with my kit pristine and unsullied…) but on this occasion it was time for more sedate pastimes and we settled for a walk on the beach (with hindsight I realise we’ve probably achieved more than the nothing that we do normally).

The clear tropical-looking waters belied their chilliness.

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But paddling through the shallows of the rock pools to look at hermit crabs and little shrimpy things was much warmer on the toes.

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And walking on the sand must have helped offset the fish and chips and ice cream that was scoffed later on…

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