I love the coast: whether it is a convergence of blue skies and seas, or thunderous clouds and crashing aqua-Goliaths, I can easily pass hours sitting, staring and mentally drifting.

During my time in Aberdeen I was lucky enough to have the North Sea literally two minutes down the road and many a happy afternoon was spent huddled from the icy winds in shelters watching Mother Nature wreak her havoc, or poking discarded jelly-fish the size of dustbin lids with summer driftwood.

It is nature’s nicotine: whether it is the balmy Med or the bitter North Sea, all troubles and woes are massaged (or battered) away by the rhythm of the tide.

The straight line of the horizon provides an infinite canvas onto which to project one’s thoughts and ensures that once you step back into the bubble of non-sea silence, quandaries will be that much clearer, a little less daunting.

Which is why I am relishing the proximity of Durham to a plethora of beaches; while not walkable – how I wish it was! – it has an interesting array.

Last night we visited Blackhall Rocks and Hartlepool; the former being particular interesting due to its yield of peculiar, almost volcanic stones.

I have somewhat a fetish for stones; it is unheard of that on leaving a country my suitcases will not clunk with the sound of rocks.

This time I gathered quite a cache of geological booty: the pièce de résistance being a veritable lava monolith that shall take pride of place as my office door-stop and toe-stubber.

It’s an utter, bubbly beauty.

[Note: while the second picture bestows the silhouette of a centaur, it is in fact my pashmina and bag. Oh, the fickle slyness of the lens...]