Dungeness catches the imagination like few coastal settlements.
It is not exactly a village, and certainly not a town.
It is neither a resort nor a place many people will feel particularly comfortable with.
It has no pier, no amusement arcades, little or nothing in the way of rock, saucy postcards or kiss-me-quick hats.
It has no hotel.
It is very much its own place, a kind of willful stage set on the very south-easterly tip of England.
I last came here over a decade ago when we were staying at Butlins up the road in Rye; we came out across the shingle and drove as far as we could into the entrance of the power station.
And Hannah took photos and made a little video through the window of Laurie’s knackered car.
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| ‘…the presence of the power stations has created a hybrid landscape, one that is harsh and bleak but within which a raw and undeniable beauty continues to surface’ David Chandler |
It was all almost exactly as I remembered it – bleak terrain, moody sky - though the beautiful Shingle House, where I stayed this time is a subtle addition to the sparse scattering of structures.
I walked during the day, during the black black night and in the early morning. I took lots of photos. I collected shells and stones and I made some drawings.
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| Night: The power station (L), the Shingle House |
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| Sunrise |
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Sunset  |
