"I told you I was ill"

So said Spike Milligan, whose grave is at Winchelsea although the headstone (pictured) doesn't actually include this quote. The village, to which I return after a November visit, used to be a Cinque Port until its isolation by silting up from successive storms. The greyness on this chilly January morning is accentuated by the brilliance of the roses. An old-fashioned letter box shows also how Winchelsea is quietly locked in the past.

A mile walk through fields takes me to Winchelsea Beach, which continues from Pett Level along a shoreline as far as the entrance to Rye harbour. It's a brisk walk over shingle until the tide falls back to reveal flat, wet sand. The elements, while almost inactive today with a gentle lapping against the shore, have shaped some of the groynes into hashtags. The colours are so muted that I've converted the beach scenes to black and white. The weather isn't clear enough to see the power station but the remoteness has all the desert-like quality that Dungeness offers.Read more